

















































































































LITTLE 

MISS REDHEAD 





\ 










Two very dear friends walked the rest of the 

way in silence. 





























KITTLE 

zMISS REDHEAD 


By 

GRACE IRWIN 

>1 

Illustrated by 
the Author 



1936 

Boston New York 

LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD 

COMPANY 


Copyright, 1936, by 


LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


Printed September, 1936 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 






C ontents 


CHAPTER 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 
XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 


An Unlucky Start 

Alice Plays a Trick 

Flopsy Makes a New Friend 

Home Work Becomes an Adventure 

A Mis-Adventure 

Old Friends Are Best 

Frankie Visits School 

Memorial Day . 

War and Peace 

“School Is Done!” 

The T. M. S. Is Born 

The Secret Language 

Flopsy Takes a Tumble 

A Picnic and a Mishap 

The Graduating Class Meets a Sub¬ 
stitute 

Flopsy Pays a Call . 

Doubts and Bright Hopes 
That Week before Graduation 
“The End of All Stories” 


PAGE 

13 

30 

44 

59 

73 

86 

95 

101 

118 

126 

138 

148 

158 

172 

189 

197 

213 

221 

229 









LITTLE 

MISS REDHEAD 













Flossy 


Chapter One 

An Unlucky Start 

I T was a radiantly beautiful morning early in May 
for the sky was that lovely clear blue, the grass 
that soft green that poets love so well to put into 
their songs of spring. Here and there in a backyard 
near School Number Nine a peach or cherry tree was 
in full bloom. School Number Nine was the newest 
school in town and on this May morning it looked 
quite like spring itself, for its spic and span red and 
white bricks blended into the whole bright picture. 
On most of its classroom window sills were vases of 
flowers brought from some mother and father’s gar¬ 
den. There were bunches too, of purple violets and 
myrtles, these did not come from a nearby garden 
but from a secret “bunk” out in the meadows and in 
the stretch of woodland just beyond the town. On the 

13 





14 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


first floor—in the kindergarten and first grade win¬ 
dows “cut out” red and yellow tulips were pasted in 
long rows against the panes. 

Mr. Marks, the janitor of School Number Nine, 
had forsaken his indoor job at the furnace and was 
out on the side lawn, leaning on a rake. He was close 
enough to the hedge, so that he could talk kindly to 
the little girls as they passed—perhaps tease them a 
bit 5 or scold at the boys, if in their haste they cut ofF 
the corners of his cherished lawn. Every boy and girl 
in School Number Nine knew Mr. Marks—everyone 
from the kindergarten to the eight A. And they had 
as much—if not more—respect for him as they had 
for Mr. Morris, the principal. The janitor of a public 
school is a very important personage. 

About four blocks away from the school in a pretty 
little white house a terrific commotion was going on 
in the darkest recesses of a cloak closet under the hall 
stairs. 

Mrs. Moore dropped what she was doing in the 
kitchen and hurried out into the hall in alarm, and 
stood at the open door and peered into the closet. 
Just as she did so a galosh flew out followed im¬ 
mediately by a rubber-boot. She looked utterly be¬ 
wildered and dismayed as she managed to get her foot 
away in time to escape a roller-skate. 

“Who is in there, for goodness sakes?” she asked 
sharply. “Is it Frankie?” 

“Ids me,” came in muffled tones from behind over¬ 
coats and rain-coats. “Oh dear, I am just dis-gusted! ” 
a girl’s voice wailed. 

“Flopsy Moore, what on earth are you doing? I 
thought that you had gone to school long ago. It must 
be late. Come out of there.” 





AN UNLUCKY START 


15 


Flopsy Moore obeyed her mother’s command to 
“come out” knocking everything which-ways as she 
came. Her face was a sad contrast to the radiant May 
morning. In one hand she sulkily held a pair of 
“sneakers” by the laces. 

“Alice makes me so— mad! She lets me get all the 
way to school before she asked me if I had my sneaks. 
She could see as well as anything that I didn’t have 
them. She had hers hidden under her arm—so I 
couldn’t see them. I know her little tricks. I’d get 
killed, if I didn’t have them for c gym’ I’d have to stay 
after school and—everything—” 

Her mother sighed. 

“I’d like to make you put that closet in order this 
very minute but you haven’t the time. You look like 
a wild Indian, your hair is all standing up on end.” 
Mrs. Moore tried to smooth her daughter’s red-brown 
curls, but Flopsy pulled away. 

“It’s all right.” Flopsy was irritable. 

Her mother sighed again, a little more heavily 
than before. 

“Flopsy,” she exclaimed suddenly, “what are you 
doing now?” There was a note of exasperation in her 
voice. 

Flopsy had walked to the nearest chair in the living 
room and was sitting on the edge of it as precisely 
and as coolly as though she had all the time in the 
world. 

“Sitting down,” she answered shortly. 

“So I see,” her mother remarked drily, “but why, 
may I venture to ask? You are late now.” 

“You have to sit down and count ten when you come 
back after you’ve forgotten something or you will be 
disappointed.” 





16 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Well, since you are worrying now about being 
late I can’t for the life of me see that sitting down 
and resting is a sure way of not being disappointed— 
you silly little goose,” her mother called after her 
as Flopsy darted out the door. 

Flopsy did not take the time to answer. Her mother 
stood for some minutes watching her, first with an 
amused smile and then with a faintly puzzled expres¬ 
sion. Flopsy looked as though she were playing “hop¬ 
scotch” all by herself. 

She was not playing hop-scotch. She was running 
as fast as she could, and at the same time avoiding 
the cracks in the sidewalk. 

“If I don’t step on a crack from here to school,” she 
was promising herself, “I won’t be late.” 

When she turned the corner that brought the whole 
school before her vision her heart leaped with fear 
—there were only a few stragglers now—the rest of 
the children were inside and out of sight. 

A boy running in back of her, caught up to her 
and deliberately gave her a push. 

“Hurry up, Flopsy-Wopsy-loves-her-Popsy, you 
will be late,” he taunted. 

“William Forbes, you are the freshest—” her eyes 
blazed with temper. She did not bother to finish 
her sentence, for she had stumbled over two cracks. 
She stood stock still. William darted ahead of her 
and over his shoulder he tossed back one more gibe. 

“Yes, I am—but don’t forget ‘Peter Rabbit’ and 
that Flopsy and Mopsy were the two little rabbits. 
So hurry up, you little rabbit.” 

Flopsy did not “hurry,” she followed William 
slowly and forlornly. It was all up! Bad luck all 
day. 



AN UNLUCKY START 


17 


By some good luck she was not late though she was 
in no humor to notice it. She followed the Seven 
A line up the stairs. William was just ahead of her 
and she longed to give him one good kick in the 
back of his heels. 

Flopsy gave her teacher, Miss Hilton, a swift look 
of appraisal the minute that she took her seat. Her 
feelings slumped lower than they had been. Miss 
Hilton was wearing a plain dark brown dress. Flopsy 
hated that dress, and she had long ago decided that 
when Miss Hilton wore it she was “crankier” than 
ever. She was now thoroughly resigned. It was 
going to be a very unlucky day. 

The Seven A, on Thursday mornings, had their 
opening exercises in their own room. Miss Hilton 
read the Twenty-third Psalm, after which they bent 
their heads for the Lord’s Prayer. Then William 
Forbes, looking very important, walked to the front 
of the room, removed the American flag from its 
perch, held it proudly erect as the class stood to salute 
it. After that they sang the first and last verse of the 
Star Spangled Banner. Then William strutted to his 
seat. Flopsy glowered at him this morning—he made 
her “sick”—he thought he was so important! 

“It’s such a beautiful morning, and probably it will 
be lovely again to-morrow. Very likely Miss An¬ 
drews will ask you to sing ‘Welcome sweet Spring¬ 
time, we greet thee with song,’ so I want the boys to 
practice their parts. I should hate to have Miss An¬ 
drews complain about them again. They were quite 
terrible on Tuesday.” 

The boys slumped and scowled. Flopsy made a 
face at Dottie Green and turned her small nose up 
into the air. Nothing in school tried her soul and pa- 



18 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


tience more than having the boys sing their parts, 
especially to “syllables” and not to words. 

So for the next fifteen minutes the fourteen boys 
in the Seven A, croaked huskily—do-do-la-re-me,— 
and the rest of it, greeting sweet springtime just as 
melodiously as a lot of bullfrogs in a pond. 

Flopsy sat in the front seat of row six right next 
the door. Miss Hilton had very good reasons of her 
own for seeing to it that Flopsy had a first seat. 
While the boys were struggling with the alto part, 
Flopsy squirmed about—her eyes seeking something 
interesting, so that she would forget the annoying 
tuneless do-re-me’s. William usually sat behind her, 
but Miss Hilton had moved him over to another 
row so that he would be nearer to the other boys. 

Behind William sat Alice Holt. Alice Holt was 
Flopsy’s “best friend”—that is most of the time. 
Alice was only a few months older than Flopsy—but 
she looked a full year older. Her very light brown 
hair was bobbed and she wore it straight, and it was 
very becoming to her delicate features. She was what 
is called a “smart-looking child”—for she carried her¬ 
self well, and wore her clothes, so that grown-up 
people said she had an “air about her.” Right now 
she was watching Flopsy with a faintly amused smile 
in her gray eyes. She knew very well that Flopsy was 
“mad,” and she also realized that she would hate to sit 
still doing nothing. She thought that Flopsy would 
write a note—an angry one—or maybe she would for¬ 
get her grievance altogether. Flopsy always forgot 
easily. 

Flopsy’s eyes were fixed on the door. Someone, 
in fact several people,— men y were making big black 
shadows against the ground-glass. Her mouth pursed 






AN UNLUCKY START 


19 


up in a round red “O,” and eyes opened wide with 
excitement. One man was leaning against the swing¬ 
ing door and made it sway. She could hear voices. 
She bent her head to listen. Yes, men’s voices—Mr. 
Morris’s and—and—? She sat up very straight as 
a sudden thought came to her. Miss Hilton was 
too absorbed with the boys to notice her or the door. 
Flopsy looked about eagerly to discover if anyone 
saw what she saw or heard what she heard. Alice 
was right. Flopsy forgot. She turned right around 
and excitedly motioned to the door. Alice shook her 
head—she could not see the door; Flopsy was very 
much pleased. She would have the pleasure of break¬ 
ing the news to Alice. She made a motion of writing, 
her lips shaped, “I’ll write.” 

She grabbed a small piece of paper and scribbled 
furiously. 

Dear Alice: Mr. Morris and a crowd of men are 
pushing at the door. They are making a big noise. I 
bet its that old crank on the Board of Education. 
Wouldn’t that be awful? ans. ans. ans. back quickly. 

Flopsy 

Without any caution whatsoever, she turned around 
and tossed the note to Alice. 

Alice, however, was more wary and she turned 
to see what Miss Hilton was doing. She kept her 
eyes on her teacher as she opened the much folded 
piece of paper. She did not look pleased as she read. 
She grabbed up a pencil and scrawled across the bot¬ 
tom of Flopsy’s note: 

Dear Flopsy: Dont ans. Dont ans. Turn around. 
Tear up this note. Alice 




20 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Alice slid the note over William’s desk, pushing 
it with her ruler, one eye on the door as she did so. 
Flopsy caught it, and without any discretion at all 
opened it. 

“She’s an old scared-cat,” Flopsy frowned. Then 
she took a larger piece of paper to write Alice a real 
note, and to tell her just what she thought of her. 
Then and there she remembered the sneakers. Alice 
made her sick. But the voices were growing louder 
outside the door—and the sound of them held 
Flopsy’s attention for the moment—and she forgot 
Alice. 

“It’s my bad luck,” she told herself. “I knew it 
was coming.” Her heart pounded with apprehension. 
That old crank on the Board of Education came into 
their room every few weeks it seemed and glared 
around the room. He glared at the weather map, 
glared at their product map, glared at their drawings 
which were pinned up on the wall, glared at the honor 
roll;—in fact, he did nothing but glare. Even Miss 
Hilton did not seem to like him very much because 
she was very quiet and rarely smiled when he was in 
the room. 

Flopsy longed to spread the bad tidings. She tried 
to get William’s eye—or Harold’s. The door gave a 
very sharp almost angry swing. Miss Hilton turned 
her head. She saw the door, and she also noted 
Flopsy’s excited expression. She raised her eyes 
to the ceiling, quite as though she said a short prayer. 
She lowered them and set her lips in a tight line. 
Then she sighed faintly. 

“All right, Flora, that will do. Turn around and 
sit still,” she spoke firmly, and just a little sharply. 
“Boys, go back to your own seats—quickly, and 




AN UNLUCKY START 


21 


quietly! Quietly , I said,” she repeated in a low grim 
tone. 

“Flora, please don’t have me look at you again. 
Please keep your eyes on me, not on that door.” 
Flopsy had put her head down on her desk so that 
she could peer better at the door—and listen better. 
At Miss Hilton’s command she sat up stiff and re¬ 
signed. 

The door at last burst open. Mr. Bates, the “old 
crank, on the board” (the boys called him old man 
Bats) stalked in first, behind him was a little fat man 
with a red face, and Mr. Morris, the principal. 

Miss Hilton rose from her seat, and bowed for¬ 
mally. 

“Let them go on with their work,” Mr. Bates said, 
and then pushed out his lower lip in an ugly fashion, 
and glared at the class from under his shaggy eye¬ 
brows. “They have wasted enough time as it is.” 

Miss Hilton and Mr. Morris exchanged glances. 
One could hear a pin drop in the room. 

“I think they work pretty hard,” Mr. Morris 
smiled. 

“Umph,” grunted Mr. Bates. “Their marks don’t 
show it.” It was the first time that the Seven A had 
heard him speak and his voice seemed to chill them. 
Cold shivers were running up and down many a 
spine in a way not natural for a radiant May morn¬ 
ing* 

“How many think that Number Nine is the best 
school in town?” He stood before them his head 
pushed forward, his hands behind him. 

Their fears fled—their eyes brightened. Eagerly, 
excitedly they waved their hands about in the air. 

“So—!” he pursed up his lips. “So—you—do?” 




22 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Miss Hilton was forgotten. Had her class looked 
at her they would have seen that her blue eyes were 
filled with distress. 

“How many of you think this is the best Seven A 
in the town?” an amused and cynical smile played 
about his mouth. Miss Hilton was shaking her head 
sadly—but her class did not notice her. 

Quite delightedly they waved their hands again. 
They were bursting with pride. 

“Well it is not , not by a long shot.” He snapped 
the words out, almost ferociously. “Not—by—a— 
long—shot! ” 

They were hurt, humiliated, and bewildered. Had 
anyone else in the world defied their loyalty to their 
class and school they would have argued and furi¬ 
ously denied it. But, they could do nothing—say 
nothing. Many a pair of eyes were wide with dumb 
reproach. 

“Number Five beats you all to pieces. Yes, all to 
pieces. You think you live in the nicest section of the 
town, and maybe you do. You come from nice homes 
where you get every advantage. Over at Number 
Five—those children there know what it is to go 
hungry. What do you have for breakfast? Cereals, 
fruit, eggs and what not? You would be surprised to 
know the class records of those children who have 
only a cup of coffee for breakfast. Do you know any¬ 
one who has only a cup of coffee for—breakfast—?” 
He paused. William’s eyes gleamed with the sud¬ 
denness of the right answer which came darting to 
his mind. 

“Yes,” Mr. Bates frowned. He did not appear to 
be hopeful of an answer. 



AN UNLUCKY START 


23 


William stood in the middle of the aisle and 
flushed, as he faced Mr. Bates. He gulped before 
he answered. 

“My aunt, she is trying to reduce.” 

The little fat man who had come in with Mr. 
Bates stood stock still—he had been roving around 
the room on tip-toes. At William’s answer he made 
such a funny face, that a few of the children snick¬ 
ered. 

Mr. Bates scowled darkly, for he thought that 
William was just a “little smart Alec.” He could 
not realize that William was merely speaking the 
simple truth. 

Miss Hilton gave Mr. Morris a swift look of dis¬ 
may and turned her back upon her very subdued 
classroom of children. 

“You are way behind in your work. Weeks behind 
in your grade.” Mr. Bates completely ignored Wil¬ 
liam and the snickers. “This Seven A is the slowest 
one in the town. I can’t see any excuse for it.” 

“Mr. Bates,” Mr. Morris stepped forward, “please 
allow me to say a few words for this Seven A. Last 
term, before Miss Hilton came, when they were 
Seven B’s; we had a very hard time getting substi¬ 
tutes, for their own teacher was sick in the hospital 
for months. Until Christmas we had to fall back on 
High School girls, occasionally I had to send a mere 
eighth grade girl in here to hold the class. Some¬ 
times they had one teacher in the morning and an¬ 
other in the afternoon. Just half a day at a time—” 

Flopsy was nodding her head vigorously in perfect 
agreement and approval to everything Mr. Morris 
said, exactly as though she had been called upon to 



24- 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


check up on his statements. Mr. Morris noticed her 
smiling face and nodding head. 

“How many teachers did you have last term, little 
girl?” he turned to her suddenly with just a suspi¬ 
cion of a smile in his eyes. 

Flopsy was so taken aback, so surprised at being 
called upon, that she stood up in a dazed fashion. 
Nothing, usually pleased her more than to stand up 
and ask questions or to answer them—except in arith¬ 
metic. She loved to volunteer information about al¬ 
most everything, but at this minute she hardly knew 
what Mr. Bates asked, but Mr. Morris’s last sentence 
stuck in her mind. She stood up solemnly, the smile 
gone and her eyes big and round. She moistened her 
lips and choked a little and answered: 

“Ten and a half.” 

Strange to say, no one thought this funny but Mr. 
Bates. 

“Which half of a teacher was it you had—her 
better half or—?” 

Instantly the class saw the joke, and burst into 
delighted giggles. Flopsy sat down blushing pain¬ 
fully. She did not like to be laughed at unless she 
was deliberately trying to be “funny.” 

“Well,” continued Mr. Bates, stern again, “we 
want no more nonsense now. Mr. Watkins and I are 
going to leave you—but when we come again, I want 
to find that you are all up to grade. Very likely, you 
took advantage of your substitute teachers and were 
up to mischief. That is your fault. All right, Mr. 
Watkins, come along.” Mr. Bates nodded good-bye 
to Miss Hilton and then he and Mr. Watkins stalked 
out of the room. 

Mr. Morris started after them, but stopped 




AN UNLUCKY START 


25 


abruptly right at Flopsy’s desk. Miss Hilton walked 
over to him. When Flopsy sat in row six and in 
the front seat she often heard conversations not in¬ 
tended for her—she really couldn’t help hearing what 
was said so close to her desk. So, since it was not her 
fault, she cocked her head to catch as much as she 
could. 

“Don’t be discouraged,” Mr. Morris said in a low 
tone. 

Miss Hilton looked up swiftly into his face with 
a grateful smile and then looked down. Her lips 
quivered the least bit but she answered steadily: 

“Oh, no, that would never do, would it?” 

Mr. Morris watched her for a few minutes 
thoughtfully. He smiled, and in a low teasing tone 
continued: 

“Laugh! Nothing is funnier to me than the an¬ 
swers a stranger can get when he or she starts throw¬ 
ing questions at a class. You never can tell what is 
coming. Serves them right!” 

Miss Hilton’s whole expression changed. Her 
eyes were twinkling. 

“I don’t think that she had the fraction right. It 
might have been two-tenths of a teacher—I am sure 
I’ve felt like the smallest kind of a fraction at 
times—” she laughed lightly. 

Flopsy knew that they were talking about her and 
she lowered her head so that her curls tumbled 
over her face. Mr. Morris echoed Miss Hilton’s 
laugh heartily, and with one hand pushed the door 
open. 

“That’s the spirit! Laugh! Laugh! and work!” 
He left the room. 

Miss Hilton slowly walked over to her desk and sat 



26 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


down. The Seven A sat very still and waited breath¬ 
lessly for her first words. Maybe she would tell 
them that she thought Mr. Bates was talking through 
his hat—and that she would tell him so. They longed 
to hear someone get up and denounce him for daring 
to say that Number Nine was not the best school in 
town. 

“As you know,” Miss Hilton began in a low 
voice, “you have your written test in arithmetic to¬ 
morrow. The averages of the week will be made out 
and then we will change seats as usual on Fridays. 
I want to see some changes. Flora Moore has sat 
in row six too long now. Flora, if she tries very hard 
and keeps her mind on what she is doing ought to 
move up a few rows. So should William. Last week 
Alice Holt went from row four to row six—to¬ 
morrow Pd like to see her go back to row four—at 
least. You know you all voted to do this—change 
seats on Fridays? Well now—?” Miss Hilton 
glanced about her class. They were nodding their 
heads. “And,” she went on, “Fleurette Muldoon 
did very well the first few days she was with us, but 
I am sorry to notice that she is getting careless lately.” 
The Seven A looked at the “new girl” in row five. 

Fleurette held up her chin and appeared more 
pleased than otherwise. She ignored the criticism and 
thought only of “she did very well.” 

Flopsy really noticed the “new girl” for the first 
time, and turned around in her seat and stared at her. 
Fleurette’s black hair fascinated her. Flopsy adored 
black hair because it was so very different from red. 
Besides, something about Fleurette’s manner made 
Flopsy feel that she was not a goody-goody. Flopsy 
had a supreme contempt for goody-goodies. 



AN UNLUCKY START 


27 


Miss Hilton went on: 

“Mary Howard has been at the head of the class 
now for a long time—perhaps someone else might 
be for a while.” 

4 

The Seven A stared at Mary Howard—there was 
some envy in their eyes as they looked towards that 
coveted first seat in row one. Mary Howard was 
coolly indifferent to the envious stares of her class¬ 
mates. 

“I think that I will send row six to the black-board 
for practice—row six!” she ordered. And row six 
rose and took their places at the black-board. Miss 
Hilton gave them each a problem. 

Alice finished hers first and took her seat. 

William finished second and as he went past Flora, 
he pushed her arm and made her chalk scratch across 
the board. Flora whirled around abruptly, only to 
find William in his seat staring at her with big inno¬ 
cent eyes. She went on with her work hopelessly. She 
put numbers down and instantly erased them. All 
of row six were now in their seats but Flora and 
Milton. They worked on and on— Flora put down 
her chalk in despair and burst into sobs. Low sobs 
at first, and then stormy. 

“Hush, Flora, don’t cry. Milton isn’t crying—and 
see he isn’t crying—yet.” Miss Hilton’s tone was 
kind, she was trying to amuse Flora. Milton grinned 
and kept on plugging. Flora kept on crying. 

“Flora, you may take your seat—” Miss Hilton’s 
eyes were filled with concern and sympathy. 

Flora cried awhile and then stopped suddenly as 
she heard a whisper back of her. Alice was arrang¬ 
ing to throw a note along the floor past William’s 
desk. Swiftly Flora caught it and opened it. 



28 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Dear Flopsy: Wait for me after school. I want 
to tell you about Dottie. Ans. Ans. Ans. quick. 

Alice 

Flopsy answered back quickly as she was ordered. 

Dottie’s got a swelled-head, just because she has to 
wear rest glasses. Your problem was a cinchy one. 

Flopsy Ans. Ans. 

Alice caught the note and read it with a frown. 
She took her pencil and fairly scratched her answer 
into the paper. 

You make me sick. You are a sore-head thats all. 
My example was harder than yours. Alice Ans. 
back 
P.S. 

Get mad if you want to. Ans. Ans. 

Flopsy never received the note for Miss Hilton 
suddenly looked in their direction. She stared de¬ 
liberately with a world of meaning in her glance, 
first at one girl and then at the other. 

“I have nothing more to say to anyone. I am sorry 
for you when things go wrong, but not when you 
simply set out to waste your time. Today means a 
great deal to you, to me, to Mr. Morris. You cannot 
afford to waste your time today. Take out your geog¬ 
raphies.” 

Silently as possible the Seven A took their geog¬ 
raphies from their desks. 

They were thinking of the next day—their arith¬ 
metic test—the exciting change of seats—and what 
an awful mean man Mr. Bates was, as they opened 




AN UNLUCKY START 


29 


to that day’s geography lesson. They were very quiet 
the rest of that day. 

Mr. Morris opened the door, and called in just be¬ 
fore the close of school. 

“How is everything going?” 

“Come in tomorrow afternoon and see,” Miss 
Hilton answered with a faint tired smile. 





Chapter Two 

Alice Plays a Trick 

F LOPSY walked slowly home from Alice’s 
house late that afternoon, just before supper. 
The day had been exactly as disgusting in 
every way, as she had feared it would be when she 
realized she had forgotten her sneakers and had 
stepped on a crack in the sidewalk. 

She and Alice had squabbled all afternoon over 
everything, anything, and nothing at all. Several 
times that dire threat—“Pll never , never , speak to 
you again, Alice Holt, as long as I live,” had almost 
slipped off her tongue. But she had just managed 
each time to hold it back. Her father always made 
so much fun of her when she announced, “I am 
never going to speak to Alice again.” He always 
got out a little note book and wrote in it. “This 
makes nine thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five 
times you have said that. I am keeping track of it,” 
he had said the last time. No, she had not said it 
again, but she had left Alice this afternoon in no very 
good humor. She was not exactly mad at her, but 
she wasn’t very glad at her either. 

Her thoughts were very gloomy as she walked. 
Ever since she was twelve she had had bad luck. She 
had been twelve for a month. Miss Hilton had come 
a few months before she had had her twelfth birth- 

30 


ALICE PLAYS A TRICK 


31 


day, and before it, she had been very nice but since 
her birthday she had got very cranky. 

Flopsy recalled sadly just how very nice Miss 
Hilton had been those first weeks. She had told them 
stories every afternoon just before dismissal. She 
told them about where she had lived out West—Raw- 



She told them stories just before dismissal. 


hide was the name of it. She used to tell them about 
the ranch, about horses, coyotes, sage brush, rattle¬ 
snakes, buzzards and panning for gold—and cow- 
boys. The cowboys were the best! While she talked, 
she would stand by the windows, and would say things 
like this: 

“Supposing I were looking out of my window at 
the ranch, everything out there would be so very 







































32 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


different. I wouldn’t see any trolleys or automobiles 
racing up and down t t he street—in fact, I wouldn’t 
see streets and pavements—nor even trees. It is so 
crowded out this window. So much to see. From 
my window at home—” and she would describe so 
lovingly, so vividly the wide stretches and stretches 
of sage brush—the vast desert, and the boundless 
sky. All of the Seven A saw it with her—they longed 
with her, were homesick with her for Rawhide. Raw- 
hide must be like the movies. 

But, Miss Hilton did not talk about Rawhide any 
more. Once or twice since the boys had asked her 
questions, but she had answered listlessly and with 
only a sad smile. Now she talked about nothing but 
school subjects, Flopsy complained to herself. Now, 
she was nothing at all but a regular teacher! 

“Just a cranky old teacher,” Flopsy decided. 
“And she is going to give me a bad mark tomorrow. 
Oh, dear, I wish I didn’t have to go to school to¬ 
morrow. I wish I could get sick or something or 
break my leg.” This last did not quite please her, it 
sounded painful. “Not that—but— I know! I 
wish—” 

Flopsy stopped short, raised her head suddenly for 
an almost pleasant thought came to her. “I know— 
a cold.” 

The more she thought of a cold, the more cheer¬ 
ful she became. Once, Flopsy had had a very bad 
cold and she had thoroughly enjoyed it. Her voice 
sounded so interesting and so she had talked more 
than usual, just to hear the husky notes in it. It had 
been very exciting to have people say, “My, but you 
have an awful cold.” And then, “Oh—NO—Oh— 
NO!” she would say in lofty derision and with fine 






ALICE PLAYS A TRICK 


33 


sarcasm. The only thing about a cold she did not 
like was, the first day it was really better and no 
one remarked about her voice. 

“Yes, I wish I had a cold—a good one,” so Flopsy 
continued her weary way homeward. For she re¬ 
alized that a cold could not be summoned at a mo¬ 
ment’s notice. The weather was exceedingly dis¬ 
couraging to any such hopes, for it was May and 
beautiful. 

Mrs. Moore was very much displeased to have 
Flopsy come in so late. She was supposed to set the 
table, and dinner was now all ready to go on the table. 
Mrs. Moore called her to hurry the minute she en¬ 
tered the house. 

Flopsy made a face, not at her mother, but at the 
whole annoying day. 

“I feel sick! ” she said to herself. A big lump gath¬ 
ered in her throat. “I bet I am getting sick.” 

Flopsy set the table in a conspicuously listless 
fashion. She ate only one helping of everything at 
dinner, and removed the dishes afterwards as though 
she were about to die. She kept hoping her mother 
would ask what the matter was and then she would 
have a chance to say: 

“I—am—sick.” 

Mrs. Moore, strange to say, was far more inter¬ 
ested in talking to Mr. Moore, than in Flopsy’s for¬ 
lorn dejected manner. 

After the table was cleared Flopsy went into the 
living room and picked up the book she had been 
reading. It had “love scenes” in it, and usually they 
made her giggle. Tonight they struck her as even 
sillier, crazier than ever. 

“You know what I’d do, she asked herself, “if 



34 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


a man proposed to me? Pd just bust out laughing 
right in his face.” She slammed the book shut and 
haughtily put it back on the table. Then she flopped 
into a chair, and sighed. Mr. and Mrs. Moore were 
still talking and not paying her the least attention. 

“IPs a shame that old man Bates ever got on the 
Board. He is on for life, I guess. He’s been there 
a dozen years at least. He just naturally enjoys 
bossing people around and showing his power, and 
he figures that being on the Board of Education is 
the best place he can do it. There is no money in it 
—it’s only the power he loves. Hope this young 
teacher beats him all to pieces. She is a western girl, 
they say, and she has ridden all kinds of horses all 
her life and has never been thrown. I hope she 
sticks this time and doesn’t let them throw her. Old 
man Bates, they say, wants to give that seventh grade 
to his sister, Sarah Bates.” 

a Who says?” Flopsy broke her silence and came 
into the dining room. Her curiosity got the better 
of her. 

a Who—which—what?” Mr. Moore teased. 

“Flopsy, I wish you would not come into the 
middle of a conversation, with a ‘which or a what.’ 
If daddy answered, it would mean nothing to you, 
we would have to begin the whole conversation all 
over.” 

This, Flopsy felt was almost too cruel. Everyone 
was too hard on her this day. 

“Mr. Bates was in our room today,” she said 
sulkily to show that they did not have to start the 
conversation all over. 

“There you are!” Mr. Moore laughed. “You 
heard the whole conversation. And—” turning to 



ALICE PLAYS A TRICK 


35 


his wife, “a lot he knows about a classroom in a public 
school. Private schools for him always—and all his 
family. I’ll bet he made your class sit up and take 
notice, Flora Madden Moore. You had better mind 
your P’s and Q’s, or as sure as fate you will have 
Miss Sarah Bates for a teacher. And if you do, you 
will have a teacher , all right, all right!” Mr. Moore 
warned Flopsy. 

“What time is it?” Flopsy changed the subject. 
She did not care to discuss teachers of any kind or 
description. 

“Eight o’clock. It seems queer without my baby 
boys. I wish auntie would bring them home. It is 
past their bed-time.” 

“I am going to bed,” Flopsy said in as dreary a 
tone as she could muster up. This announcement, 
she felt ought to startle her mother into asking what 
was wrong. Flopsy suggesting going to bed before 
her time—before little Dickie and Frankie! It was 
unheard of! 

“That is ^ sensible idea! Beautiful—fine! What 
is going to happen? Will wonders never cease? Now 
get up early in the morning for your home work. 
One can always think better early in the morning— 
the brain is clearer.” Mr. Moore was beaming his 
approval. 

“Very well, dear.” Mrs. Moore did look some¬ 
what surprised. “Tired of your book, Flopsy? And 
you never listened to your dearly beloved radio pro¬ 
gram, tired of that too?” 

Flopsy only nodded, she could not speak. Mrs. 
Moore bent and kissed her daughter fondly. “Sleep 
well, little girl—and get a good rest. I suppose you 
are tired. Good night.” 




36 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Flopsy darted from the room to hide the bitter 
tears that were overflowing her eyes. 

As she pulled off her second stocking—a sudden 
thought came to her. She held her stocking poised 
in the air. 

“If it would only rain tomorrow!” Down went 
the stocking several feet from where the other one 
lay. “If it only would pour ” Her eyes brightened 
at the prospect. “I couldn’t go to school. My rub¬ 
bers are lost—and—” She was quite sure they were 
lost, because she knew exactly why and where they 
were—lost. 

As she crept into bed she sighed—this time almost 
happily. “I hope I don’t go to sleep too soon. I’d 
like to plan it all out. First I’ll pray for rain.” And 
then Flopsy prayed for rain. A good hard rain, one 
that would make the farmer’s heart glad. “I am not 
praying for myself but everyone who eats the 
crops—” she explained to herself. 

To be awakened by blazing sunlight, when one’s 
last waking thought was for rain, is very annoying. 
Flopsy turned her back upon the sunlight, crossly 
covered her head in the bed-clothes and tried to go 
back to sleep. Of course, she could not sleep, she 
was far too disturbed for any such peace. 

“Now,” she wailed inwardly, “another ‘D’ in 
arithmetic. That will mean sitting in row six again. 
That old crank on the Board of Education will come 
in again and they will see me in row six. They will 
remember me because of my hair. I wonder why I 
was ever born—stupid in arithmetic, stupid in spell¬ 
ing—I’ve got reddish hair—and my name’s Flopsy.” 
Flopsy shed a few tears into the sheet. 




ALICE PLAYS A TRICK 


37 


Flopsy is not exactly the prettiest of nicknames, 
and the slightest tinge of red in a grammar school 
boy’s or girl’s hair is something of a trial. Flopsy had 
sense enough to realize that it was no one’s fault 
that her hair had a red shine to it—but it was some¬ 
one’s fault, certainly, that she was called Flopsy. 
When she a tiny baby and didn’t know any better 
she had called herself something that sounded like 
Flopsy. She felt now that it was cruel to make her 
suffer all her life for a babyish mistake. She forgot 
at this moment that there were days when she thought 
Flopsy was a very funny nickname, and enjoyed hav¬ 
ing it thought funny. 

As Flopsy lay in bed, she grew more and more 
worried over the arithmetic test. She chewed away on 
her finger-nails. She would not go to school, that 
was all there was to it. But just how she was to stay 
home was still a problem. 

“Flopsy Moore!” her mother called upstairs. 
“Are you ready for breakfast?” 

Flopsy’s heart beat very fast—she made up her 
mind. If she answered all was lost! 

“Flopsy! Flopsy!” her mother called again. 

But Flopsy never answered—she just crawled a 
little farther under the bed-clothes. Flopsy waited, 
her heart beating so hard that she felt sure that her 
mother must hear it all the way downstairs. The 
minutes dragged. She wondered if it w r ere late? 
She could hear Frankie and Dickie playing down in 
the sitting room. It made her even more forlorn to 
hear them laughing, she wished that she, too, had 
something to laugh about. Her neck began to hurt, 
she was holding her head so stiff and rigid. She was 
afraid to move it for fear that her mother would 




38 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


come into the room suddenly and discover that she 
was not asleep. She slowly and cautiously moved 
her mouth so that she could get a little air, and as 
she heard no sound, she thought she would stick 
her hair clear out from under the blankets and take 
one long deep breath. 

“Flopsy Moore!” 

Flopsy’s heart seemed to stop beating entirely. She 
lay perfectly still with her head half uncovered. 

“ Flop-sy /” her mother called again. Mrs. Moore 
came running up the stairs two steps at a time. 

“Gracious,” Flopsy groaned, thoroughly fright¬ 
ened. She crawled under the blanket again. 

“Why—Flopsy!” her mother was now in the 
room. She was looking down upon the big lump in 
the middle of the bed. Not one hair of Flopsy’s 
lovely hair showed. There was only a big heap of 
bed-clothes—but no sign of a girl. 

Poor Flopsy felt sure she must smother. She felt 
too, that her mother’s eyes were boring holes in the 
blankets. All in all, it was a most miserable moment. 
Besides, she longed to sneeze or at least clear her 
throat. 

“Flopsy Moore!” Mrs. Moore was stern. “Do 
you know that it is late—too late for you to go to 
school? Unless you are sick—and I don’t believe you 
are, you must get up at once. You will have to go 
to school this afternoon, and I most certainly will 
not write you an excuse for being absent, and—” 

But Flopsy never moved. 

Mrs. Moore caught the bed-clothes in her hands 
and uncovered her daughter. Flopsy’s eyes squinted 
tight together, for the sudden light made her blink. 




ALICE PLAYS A TRICK 


39 


“Get up this minute! You are not asleep,” Mrs. 
Moore ordered. 

“I am asleep,” Flopsy answered, beginning to cry. 
She wanted to add, “—and sick.” 

Mrs. Moore walked out of the room and as she 
went she said, “Now that you are home I can find 
plenty of things for you to do all morning. You can 
start by collecting the rubbers and putting the hall 
closet in order. Now hurry!” 

As Flopsy dressed, she gayly hummed under her 
breath. At least she did not have to take that wretched 
test. Her spirits began to soar as she brushed her 
glossy hair. She sang a little song in her funny 
voice—it was always just a little off key. Suddenly, 
she stopped—looked into the mirror and eyed her¬ 
self sternly. 

“Flora Madden Moore!” she scolded. “Sing be¬ 
fore your eating—cry before your sleeping. Don’t 
sing before breakfast or something’s sure to happen all 
wrong! But,” she continued with a smile, “Alice 
is sure of getting a bad mark and I can say that if 
I had been there I’d surely have passed—as the 
questions were as easy as pie. Alice played that little 
trick on me once. Alice is such an old know-it-all. 
She isn’t as smart as she thinks she is—” Flopsy’s 
smile changed to a frown as she thought of Alice’s 
little tricks. 

Mrs. Moore had by accident discovered Flopsy’s 
rubbers under Frankie’s bed. Frankie was hiding 
under it because he did not want his hair combed. 
As Mrs. Moore had pulled Frankie out the rubbers 
had come with him. 

“My goodness, what is the matter with this rub- 



40 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


ber? A regular scallop taken out of the flap here in 
front! Cut as though with a knife or a scissor. My 
goodness! ” Mrs. Moore held the rubber in her hand. 

Flopsy admitted to her horrified mother the truth 
—she had cut it with a scissor—for she had had to 
have a piece of rubber for—Brazil. 

“Brazil?” her mother gasped. 

“Yes, mother,” Flopsy affirmed a little fearfully. 
“Yes, rubber is found in Brazil. It was home work.” 

“Home work?” Mrs. Moore echoed blankly. “I 
don’t know what you mean, or what on earth you 
are talking about! Home work? Home work—to 
cut a piece right out of the front of your rubbers? 
What has Brazil got to do with it?” 

“Oh, mother,” Flopsy pleaded, “it was a product 
map—we have to paste the products of a country on 
it. And all the rubber in the house was so bulgy I 
couldn’t paste it on a map I was making, a product 
map of South America—and rubber comes from 
Brazil.” 

“Maybe,” her mother said drily, “but this rubber 
comes right out of your father’s pocket-book. And 
you will have to wear it with this ridiculous looking 
scallop— regardless! ” 

Mrs. Moore was indignant. Flopsy looked 
ashamed and foolish. 

Alice Holt called for her at noon-time. Flopsy 
rushed to the door to meet her—she was afraid that 
Alice might say something about the test before her 
mother. 

Alice was in a very bad humor and Flopsy in a 
gay one as they went off arm in arm to school. 

“How was the test?” asked Flopsy in an offhand 
fashion. “I was very very sick this morning.” 




ALICE PLAYS A TRICK 


41 


“You don’t look a bit sick,” Alice answered sharply. 
“Your face is very red, you look healthy.” 

“Some of that red is because I am feverish, when 
you are feverish your face gets awfully red,” ex¬ 
plained Flopsy. 

Alice eyed her best friend coldly and suspiciously. 

“I’ve got a secret, I’ll tell you after school,” Alice 
said in a low voice, her eyebrows drawn together in 
a deep frown. 

“About me?” Flopsy asked a little nervously. 

“Yes, about you—wait and see—” Alice smiled 
disagreeably. 

“Is it nice?” Flopsy felt very uncomfortable. 

“For some people—not for others—” Alice con¬ 
tinued to smile. Flopsy did not like her smile. 

“Tell it to me,” she coaxed. 

“No, I won’t,” Alice answered positively. 

Flopsy said no more. She knew only too well that 
Alice was stubborn and that coaxing only made her 
worse. The two very dear friends walked the rest 
of the way to school in silence. 

As Miss Hilton called the roll she stopped when 
she came to Flopsy’s name. 

“Flora Moore?” Miss Hilton stared hard at 
Flopsy. “Where were you this morning?” 

“I was sick,” Flopsy shivered, and choked as she 
answered. 

“Your excuse?” Miss Hilton held out her hand 
and waited. 

“I forgot it.” Flopsy’s voice was very low. 

“All right, Miss Moore, you may stay after school 
this afternoon. It is very fortunate that you are well 
enough to get to school this afternoon. Our arith¬ 
metic test had to be postponed from this morning— 




42 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


we had special exercises this morning in the audito¬ 
rium. I am very glad that you are well enough to 
take it—because you cannot afford to miss it—you 
know how much it means to you.” 

Flopsy’s brown eyes filled with angry tears. She 
forgot even for one moment that she had liked Miss 
Hilton—now she hated her. Every boy and girl in 
the room stared at her for a few dreadful minutes. 

Then—Flopsy caught Alice’s eye—and Alice was 
smiling. A burning rage at the world filled her—at 
everyone—most of all at Miss Hilton and Alice. 

“The big sneak!” thought Flopsy hotly. “Wait 
until I get her after school. My best friend too.” 

Of course, Flopsy did not pass the test. She chewed 
the end of her pen until it looked like a brush. Once, 
in her nervousness she put the wrong end into her 
mouth. Her mouth was filled with ink—but she had 
too much to think about to care. The last thing she 
did was to let her pen roll down her desk and it spat¬ 
tered her paper with dozens of little dots. 

Alice was copying from Dottie Green. 

“Oh, but she is a big cheat! ” Flopsy thought with 
fine scorn. “I’ll never— never—NEVER speak to 
her again—NEVER!” 

The papers were collected and Flora Moore knew 
that she had failed again. 

Flopsy had to stay after school because she had 
not brought her “excuse” and because she had been 
caught throwing a note to Alice (she had decided 
not to wait until after school to tell Alice, all and 
everything that she thought of her). The note never 
reached Alice—its final end was in the waste-paper 
basket. 

Fleurette Muldoon, the new girl in row five had 



ALICE PLAYS A TRICK 


43 


to stay after school, also—because she had been very 
boisterous on line out in the hall. 

Shortly after the class had filed out, Mr. Morris 
walked into the room and he glanced at the two 
girls in displeasure. 

“Tell me,” he said as he came towards Miss Hil¬ 
ton, “Do you think that there will be any change in 
row six?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I have only glanced 
over their papers. I am taking them home to mark.” 
She shook her head a little wearily, and added, “I 
don’t think so. I am so disappointed.” 

Mr. Morris glanced over at Flopsy and shook his 
head, too. Then he turned his back on her. Flopsy 
could not hear all of their conversation, but most 
of it. 

“I don’t think that I can do it,” Miss Hilton fal¬ 
tered, “I should not have boasted that I could. Pride 
goeth before destruction—you know!” 

“You must!” he cried, almost sharply. “I prom¬ 
ised for you. You owe it to yourself and to me. You 
are just a little blue today, that’s all.” 

“I am sorry. You could not be any more disap¬ 
pointed than I. Pve never been beaten by anything 
yet. I suppose I am not now. I never let a horse 
throw me, no matter how cussed it was—I stuck— 
I’ll stick, even if I am thrown in the end.” 

“That’s the spirit!” he grinned. “Mr. Bates is 
more like a mule—than a bucking horse.” He walked 
over to the door, and as he opened it he called back, 
with a salute, “Here’s hoping—” 

With a smile Miss Hilton returned his salute. 

The room was very quiet for some time—the big 
clock on the wall fairly thundered out the minutes. 






Fleurette 


Chapter Three 

Flopsy Makes a New Friend 

F LOPSY and Fleurette sat very stiff and straight 
for a long time after Mr. Morris left the room. 
It seemed like countless ages— 

Miss Hilton was writing a letter, because once she 
had held it up and had re-read what she had writ¬ 
ten, and Flopsy could see that it was letter paper. 
To whom was Miss Hilton writing a letter? Flopsy 
tried guessing—to amuse herself and to pass the 
time. But her guessing did not amuse her for long 
—instead it filled her with dark misgivings. She 
had no faith in teachers’ letters. They could only 
mean trouble. 

Miss Hilton was writing to her mother out in Raw- 
hide. This Flopsy would never have guessed, if she 
had tried all day. She never thought of Miss Hilton 
as having a mother. 


44 


FLOPSY MAKES A NEW FRIEND 45 


Miss Hilton had just written: 

—Babbie asked me in her last letter to tell her the 
liveliest little girl in my class. (Babbie was Miss Hil¬ 
ton’s young sister.) She wants to write to her. The 
liveliest by far is that little Flora Moore—called Flopsy 
by her friends. She and Babbie are only a few weeks 
apart in age. Their age is the only thing that they 
have in common—for one could scarcely imagine two 
girls more dissimilar in tastes. Babbie feels very un¬ 
happy because she is not well enough to go to school 
—and I am sure that Flopsy would consider a long 
drawn out case of measles, that would keep her away 
from school, a real blessing. 

Oh, Flopsy would enjoy school well enough, if I 
told her stories about Rawhide all one day, let her play 
games the next. Make paper dolls another. She likes 
history, English and drawing—yes, we could scatter 
about a few hours of these subjects. As it is Flopsy 
thinks I am one big crank of a teacher. 

Right at this moment she is staring at me very hard 
and suspiciously. She probably thinks that I am writ¬ 
ing to the Board of Education about her. Sometimes, I 
could gently shake that child; at other times I love her. 
She has the cutest, prettiest, little face, and perfectly 
beautiful red-brown hair. Oh, wouldn’t she be sur¬ 
prised if she could see what I am writing! 

However, I don’t think that I will let Babbie write 
to her. She might tell her that I am an old pill for not 
giving her 90 in arithmetic, when she’d missed four or 
five out of ten questions— 

Miss Hilton stopped writing and looked at Flopsy. 
At this moment she was turning around and smiling 
broadly at Fleurette, and motioning to the clock. It 
was a quarter of four. 



46 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Miss Hilton went on with her letter: 

She is amusing herself right this minute. I know 
that she is going home tonight, very, very mad at me. 

I feel it in my bones. I have just glanced at her test 
paper—and I wish you could see it! Oh, dear! 

Miss Hilton was too absorbed in her letter for a 
few minutes to notice Flopsy. 

Flopsy was trying to entertain Fleurette in the 
most lavish way that she could under the circum¬ 
stances. She was making believe that she was mark¬ 
ing papers, and was with extravagant gestures check¬ 
ing examples all wrong. She had given herself “ten” 
and was holding the paper up for Fleurette to see 
the big red “10” on it. She patted her stomach, 
meaning, “That’s what I get.” Fleurette made a face 
and patted her stomach, and motioned with her lips, 
“Me too!” 

Miss Hilton put her pen down in utter exaspera¬ 
tion. 

“If you think that is funny, Flora Moore, to get 
such a mark, I am sure that Mr. Morris wouldn’t. 
Nor I, nor your mother, for that matter. That’s very 
silly showing off, because you would be very much 
ashamed if you got that mark. You could have spent 
this time doing something worth while—looking over 
your home work—” 

Flopsy’s face flushed painfully. 

“You may go, both of you,” Miss Hilton said 
coldly and quietly. 

Flopsy and Fleurette left the room very subdued 
and uncomfortable small girls. 



FLOPSY MAKES A NEW FRIEND 47 


“Where do you live?” Flopsy asked when the two 
girls were out on the street. 

“On Midland Avenue,” Fleurette answered. 

“We can walk home together, because that’s near 
where I live,” Flopsy said, well pleased that she 
didn’t have to walk home alone. She had taken a 
fancy to this new girl. 

“Do you like Miss Hilton?” was Flopsy’s first 
question. 

“Goodness, no!” Fleurette looked amazed that 
anyone could ask such a foolish question. “I never 
liked a teacher in my whole life.” 

Flopsy was delighted, here was a girl after her 
own heart. 

“Neither have I,” Flopsy agreed heartily. “And 
I hate Miss Hilton worse than any of them.” 

“She doesn’t like you either. I thought that she 
was awful mean to you. She acted so hard-hearted— 
I felt sorry for you. Even after you told her you 
were sick. Why, she is a terror!” 

Fleurette scanned Flopsy’s face, eagerly hoping 
that this sympathy would please her. 

And, it did, mightily. Flopsy smiled back warmly. 

“She doesn’t like you either,” Flopsy said, her 
eyes blazing up with excitement. “Of all things, to 
keep a new girl after school an hour! Why you 
have been here only a few weeks—” 

“Eight days,” corrected Fleurette mournfully. 
“But, I am used to that. Teachers always pick on 
me, the first thing. I’ve had awful experiences— 
I’ve nearly been suspended hundreds of times.” 

“You have?” Flopsy opened her eyes wide. 

“Oh, yes,” continued Fleurette coolly. “Of course, 



48 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


it’s never been fair. So I don’t mind. I don’t feel 
ashamed.” 

“Ashamed? Of course not—why I think it’s won¬ 
derful.” Flopsy looked upon Fleurette with frank 
admiration. “Do you think you passed the test?” 

“Gracious—NO!” Fleurette laughed at the very 
idea. “She would never let me pass—never!” 

“Nor me—never!” Flopsy echoed gayly. “You 
heard what she said to me? She has never let me 
pass a test for months.” 

Now, Fleurette Muldoon looked up Flopsy with 
great admiration and respect. 

“You poor thing. I feel sorry for you. Why 
doesn’t your mother go to school—and give it to 
her?” 

“My mother did go once, but the way that teachers 
can get around a mother is awful. Believe me, no 
teacher can fool me when I get big. My mother 
even thought Miss Hilton was—; pretty? Can you 
imagine—that?” 

Fleurette squealed with laughter at the very idea. 
The two girls were now in sight of Flopsy’s home. 

Flopsy could see her mother kneeling in her gar¬ 
den, planting something. Her mother was always 
planting flowers it seemed these lovely May days. 
Flopsy had a lot more things to say to Fleurette, 
before they parted. 

“Let’s stand here awhile,” she suggested. “There’s 
my house over there, and maybe when I get home 
I’ll have to go somewhere and then we can’t talk.” 

Nothing in the world could have pleased Fleurette 
more than an opportunity to talk. And as they talked, 
they liked each other more each moment. At last 
they slowly moved towards Flopsy’s house. 




FLOPSY MAKES A NEW FRIEND 49 


“Before I say good-bye, I want to ask you if you 
know Alice Holt.” 

“No, I don’t know her—I just know who she is. 
She is kind of a snip, isn’t she?” Fleurette an¬ 
swered. 

“Well, rath-er!” agreed Flopsy with all her heart. 
“Let me tell you what she did—” and Flopsy poured 
into sympathetic ears, Alice’s little trick. 

“That’s the kind of a girl I simply can’t stand,” 
Fleurette announced positively. “They are always 
trying to be teachers’ pets—and they let teachers walk 
all over them. Not for me! I bet she likes to go up¬ 
stairs before school and erase boards, and clap erasers, 
and things like that!” 

“You said it!” Flopsy chanted in delight. Fleu¬ 
rette was so quick to get the point. 

At this moment they had reached Flopsy’s house. 
Mrs. Moore looked up when she heard her daugh¬ 
ter’s voice, and then she stood up and came towards 
the girls with a trowel in one hand. 

“Oh, mother, oh, mother!” Flopsy sprang towards 
her mother, her eyes bright and her cheeks very 
pink, “I want you to meet my new friend, Fleurette 
Muldoon. She is a new girl. And mother,—” 
Flopsy stopped a second to catch her breath, as her 
words had come tumbling out,—“her name is almost 
like mine, for she says fleurette’ means little flower, 
and you said once, that my name meant—flower, don’t 
you remember? And her initials are the same as 
mine. Isn’t that funny?” 

Mrs. Moore, laughingly put her arm about 
Flopsy’s shoulder and looked down with a smile into 
Fleurette’s upturned face. 

“What a little chatterbox you are, to be sure, Flora 





50 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Moore! I am always very glad to meet your friends, 
you know. How do you do, Fleurette?” 

“I am pleased to meet you,” Fleurette said with 
what she felt to be her most elegant manner—hold¬ 
ing out her hand as she spoke. 

Mrs. Moore looked down at her gloves ruefully. 
They still had some earth clinging to them. She 
shook her head with a gracious smile. 

“You wouldn’t like to shake hands with me, Fleu¬ 
rette, I have been digging in the dirt for the last 
hour. You must come and see Flopsy and spend an 
afternoon with her—for I know, that at first it may 
be lonely for a new girl in a town where all the chil¬ 
dren have known each other since they were born.” 

Flopsy was bursting with pride in her mother. She 
was so kind and understanding. Flopsy cocked her 
head, so that she could look full into Fleurette’s 
face. Flopsy was more plainly than words asking, 
“Isn’t my mother sweet—sweet?” There was no 
doubt that Fleurette did think so—for she gave back 
to the warm eager face peering so close into her 
own, a smile of vast approval. 

“I’ll be seeing you,—Flopsy!” Fleurette said hap¬ 
pily. “And thank you very much, Mrs. Moore, for 
asking me to come and see you and Flora.” Fleu¬ 
rette’s manner was stiff and self-conscious with her 
elegance. Mrs. Moore smiled kindly and with under¬ 
standing. She knew that Fleurette felt strange. 

“We will always be glad to see you, my dear.” 

“Good-bye,” Fleurette said abruptly. She turned 
and fled. In a few seconds, she whirled about and 
waved to Flopsy. Then she ran on a way, turned 
again, and waved once more. She darted out of sight 
around a corner. She was eager to dash in upon her 



FLOPSY MAKES A NEW FRIEND 51 


mother with the wonderful news that she had at last 
in this new town—a friend—and what a friend! 

Mrs. Moore was now on her knees planting pansies. 
She had bought several big boxes of them from a ped¬ 
dler earlier in the day. She held up one very beauti¬ 
ful plant. 

“See, Flopsy, aren’t they gorgeous? I don’t think 
that I ever saw any that were so big and such a deep 
purple.” She looked down at them lovingly, and 
with tender care lowered them into the hole which 
she had made for them. 

Flopsy agreed absent-mindedly—her thoughts 
were very far away from pansies—even gorgeous 
ones. She squatted down on the grass beside her 
mother. 

“Oh, mother, isn’t Fleurette wonderful? She is 
pretty too, I think that she is prettier than Alice. 
She has curly hair, and Alice’s is as straight as a 
poker. And, she has greenish eyes, and greenish 
eyes are pretty when they go with black hair. She has 
the same ideas as me about all kinds of things. I 
guess she is going to be my best friend, too.” 

“Flopsy, dear,” her mother looked up. “I am 
happy if you have found a nice new friend, but— 
you have not quarreled with Alice again, have you? 
What kept you so late anyway? I was about to send 
the town crier after you.” 

“Oh, Alice,” she replied in a disgusted tone, as 
she hastened to answer her mother’s first question 
and to slip past the second one. “Oh, Alice is terrible. 
She copies. Why, I’d rather get ‘D’ every day of 
the week than copy.” This was quite true in every 
respect—Flopsy would not copy,—and she was get¬ 
ting ‘D’ every day lately! 



52 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“I am glad to hear you say that, dear, but I hope 
it isn’t at all necessary to get £ D’ every day! Daddy 
and I will help you every night, if you want us to—.” 
She changed the subject, “You and Alice have been 
friends since you were babies—and—” 

“Yes,” Flopsy broke in. She did not want to dis¬ 
cuss her friendship with Alice. She was troubled 
with the thought of her arithmetic—she hesitated, 
before saying anything more. “—Oh, mother—” 
“What is it?” Mrs. Moore asked quickly. She 
saw the distress in Flopsy’s face. “What is the 
trouble, dear?” 

“Oh, mother,” Flopsy’s mouth quivered. “Oh, 
mother, I guess that I failed another test.” 

“Oh, Flopsy. Oh, my dear child!” Mrs. Moore’s 
eyes showed their disappointment. “Flopsy, we must 
get down to work. You know that you have not 
come to me for help for weeks, in fact, I can’t seem 
to remember your doing any real home work for a 
long time. Just think how disappointed you will be 
if you do not go into the eighth grade with Alice, 
Dottie and Mary. You started school with them and 
I am sure you want to graduate with them—” 

The color fled from Flopsy’s face. The very 
thought filled her with horror. 

At this moment a telephone bell rang furiously. 
Its lusty clanging broke a very painful silence. Mrs. 
Moore listened intently for a few seconds. When 
out of doors on a spring or summer day it was hard, 
sometimes, to tell just whose telephone was ringing 
—one’s own or a neighbor’s. 

“It is ours—I think, Flopsy. Answer it. I have 
a few more pansies to get into the ground this after¬ 
noon.” 





FLOPSY MAKES A NEW FRIEND 53 


Flopsy darted into the house—only too well 
pleased to bring a painful conversation to an abrupt 

end. 

Mrs. Moore soberly planted her pansies. She was 
worried. She kept turning over and over in her mind 
what Flopsy had just told her. She had never taken 
Flopsy’s declarations that she hated school or her 
teacher, very seriously. She knew that Flopsy would 
have hated even more staying home all day with no 
one to play with but her small brothers, and after 
school meeting her playmates, and having them talk 
about things about which she knew nothing, or re¬ 
lating experiences that she could not share. Flopsy 
enjoyed far too well knowing it all and being very 
much a part of everything that went on. She liked 
school far better than she would admit—thus Mrs. 
Moore comforted herself. But what about this arith¬ 
metic? Suddenly, she realized that Flopsy had been 
talking for some time on the telephone. She could 
hear her voice, high, gay and excited, as it came to her 
through the open door. 

Flopsy was now on the top step of the porch. She 
was no longer an unhappy small girl worried over 
her arithmetic—or anything else! Her face was 
radiant. 

“Oh, mother, that was Fleurette. And she wants 
me to go over to her house tonight at quarter after 
seven, so we can do our home work together. You 
know that you always like me to do my home work 
before Sunday night, so I won’t do it in a rush at the 
last minute. She wants me to stay until nine o’clock, 
and her father will take me home in their car. We 
have arithmetic and grammar for home work and I 
am better than Fleurette in grammar, and she is bet- 





54 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


ter than I am in arithmetic (she did not say, very 
little better). We can help each other. Oh, mother, 
please say yes! Oh, please. I want to work hard and 
get out of row six. I want to graduate with Alice 
and Dottie and all. Oh, mother, can’t I do my home 
work with Fleurette? Please, mother—” She was 
now completely out of wind. She choked, gulped 
and then drew one long breath. She looked down at 
her mother beseechingly. 

Mrs. Moore stood up. A faintly perplexed frown 
flickered over her face. Then it vanished. But what 
could she say any way? 

“Flopsy, Mrs. Muldoon doesn’t know you. Are 
you sure that she wants you?” Mrs. Moore spoke 
hesitantly. 

“Oh, but she does, she does! She is just over¬ 
joyed that Fleurette has a friend in this new town. 
And, mother, you said that it was sometimes very 
lonely for a new girl in a town where all the chil¬ 
dren have known each other since they were born. 
Wouldn’t it be a kind act for me to go and see her?” 
Flopsy had quoted her mother very pointedly and 
precisely. 

“I don’t know what to say.” Mrs. Moore lowered 
her eyes as though she were inspecting her pansies. 
She had an amused smile in them. She did not 
want Flopsy to think she was smiling at her noble 
intentions. 

“Well, Flopsy, are you quite sure that you will 
do any home work and that you are not going to 
talk your heads off? Mrs. Muldoon may regret 
asking you over, if you talk too much!” 

“Oh, mother!” Flopsy squealed reproachfully, 



FLO PS Y MAKES A NEW FRIEND 55 


“we want to get good marks, don’t we? We want 
to really help each other, honestly we do! Oh, 
mother, please say yes—please—mother!” 

Mrs. Moore sighed faintly. 

“Yes, Flopsy—I suppose so. Remember that you 
are to be back in this house by nine o’clock.” 

“O.K.!” Flopsy shouted. “And, oh, boy!” she 
dashed into the house slamming the screen door so 
that it fairly shook the neighborhood. 

“My slangy daughter!” Mrs. Moore said aloud, 
with a funny little smile as she shook her head. 

When Mrs. Moore went into the house fifteen 
minutes later she found Flopsy still at the tele¬ 
phone. She was giggling and sputtering as she 
talked—and TALKED. 

“Would it be possible for me to use that telephone 
in the next hour or so? I want to have the grocer 
send me something before dinner.” Mrs. Moore 
gently tapped her daughter on the head. 

“Oh, gee! Fleurette, I must stop, my mother 
wants the phone right now—I’ll phone you later— 
I’ll be seeing you—O.K.” 

Mrs. Moore shook her head with a rueful laugh 
as she sat down at the telephone. 

“I have a mental picture of you two doing any 
home work tonight!” she said dryly as she took the 
receiver off the hook to give her number. 

For the next half hour Flopsy followed her 
mother around, talking in circles. She repeated her¬ 
self over and over again. 

“Flopsy, can you possibly calm down long enough 
to go upstairs and get my scissors, they are on my 
bureau? Please hurry, for I must start dinner in a 



56 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


few minutes, and there is something I want to do 
before then. Now please keep your wits about you 
for a few seconds.” 

“O.K.” Flopsy sang out as she sprang to do her 
mother’s bidding. 

“Flopsy, stop a minute.” 

Flopsy stood stock-still. 

“What are you going up-stairs for?” 

Flopsy stared at her mother blankly. She shook 
her head slowly from side to side. 

“Now listen to me,” Mrs. Moore said, somewhat 
sharply, “you are going upstairs for my scissors. 
My scissors y do you hear me? They are on my 
bureau. My— bureau!” 

Flopsy kept nodding her head vigorously. 

“Scissors — scissors — bureau — bureau — ” she 
chanted as she ran upstairs. “Scissors—scissors—.” 

When she got into her mother’s room and stood 
before the bureau she was still chanting—scissors— 
She suddenly caught sight of her reflection in the mir¬ 
ror, and was arrested by it. She stared at herself, as 
though seeing herself for the first time. Fleurette 
had said she had big eyes. Had she big eyes? She 
had never noticed before. She opened them very 
wide—very wide, indeed. She rolled them around. 
She leaned forward and peered intently into the 
glass. Now her eyes were all squinted up. They 
were not big at this minute, but narrow—she opened 
them wide again. Her mother’s voice from down¬ 
stairs rudely jarred her out of this fascinating little 
performance. 

“Flopsy! Will you hurry?” 

Flopsy made a clicking sound of annoyance and 
called: 



FLOPSY MAKES A NEW FRIEND SI 


“I can’t see them anywhere /” 

“Flora Moore—they are in—plain sight. Hurry /” 

That was what her mother always said. Things 
were always in plain sight . Flopsy put her hand 
down on the center of the bureau and chanted: 

“They are in plain sight. They are right here.” 
But they were not, nor on the next spot her hand 
moved to. 

Frankie’s feet were heard pounding on the stairs, 
and her small brother flew into the room a second 
later. 

“You crazy cat—here they are and mother says 
you are as blind as a bat, and to come downstairs— 
straight off. You have to set the table.” Frankie 
grabbed up a pair of scissors, but before he could 
dash off with them, Flopsy had given him a shove. 

“Don’t get fresh! ” 

“Blind as a bat, blind as a bat, blind as a cat, blind 
as a hat, blind as a mat—blind as a—” Frankie 
loved to rhyme. He rhymed by the hour to Flopsy’s 
extreme irritation. He just managed to slip out of 
Flopsy’s reach as she made an angry grab at him. 

“Mother!” he yelled lustily as he dashed for the 
stairs. “Mother—moth-er!” 

Flopsy followed him slowly downstairs. She de¬ 
cided that if she were to go out that evening perhaps 
it would be better not to have a battle with her small 
brother. She went straight into the dining room and 
began to set the table. It would be best under the 
circumstances to have her mother find her working. 

“Flopsy,” her mother asked a few minutes later, 
“what are you staring at in the refrigerator?” 

Flopsy turned and stared at her mother. 

“What am I?—Oh,” she hesitated, “napkins.” 






58 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Since when have I kept napkins in the refrigera¬ 
tor, may I ask?” Mrs. Moore sounded as though 
she was just about to lose her patience. 

“We will try this out,” Mrs. Moore thought to 
herself as she worked in the kitchen getting dinner. 
“Of course, Flopsy is up in the air, for it has been 
seldom that she has had such a brand-new experience. 
We will see what we will see.” 



Chapter Four 

Home Work Becomes an Adventure 


F LOPSY could scarcely eat her dinner. She 
watched the clock every minute as she ate. 
Quarter after seven Fleurette had said. She 
would leave the house at seven. Of course, it never 
in the world would take fifteen minutes to walk those 
few blocks—but she must take no chances. Someone 
might meet her and stop to talk. She must leave 
plenty of time for things to happen. 

At seven, Flopsy was at the front door kissing her 
mother good-bye. She had her father’s brief case 
in one hand. It was stuffed with books, paper, 
pencils, crayons and a ruler. She had added at the 
last minute a collection of paper dolls that she had 
drawn. She must show these to Fleurette. 

“Good-bye, dear! Be a good girl. Don’t talk too 
much. Remember, Fleurette’s mother expects you 
to be coming to do your home work—” Mrs. Moore 
wondered as she said this if it were really possible 
that Mrs. Muldoon could seriously expect much 
in the way of home work from the two girls. “And, 
remember also that you are to come home at nine 
o’clock.” 

Flopsy kissed her mother good-bye with her mind 
on the adventure ahead of her. Home work had sud¬ 
denly become an adventure. She answered absent- 
mindedly: 


59 


60 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Of course.” 

Then she tore up the street and almost skidded as 
she dashed around the corner. For a second it looked 
as though she were going to lose her balance and fall. 
She raced right on, however, and arrived at Fleu- 
rette’s house at exactly three and a half minutes 
after seven. Fleurette was at a front window waiting 
for her. 

Mrs. Muldoon was not at all like her own mother, 
Flopsy decided at once. In fact she was not at all as 
she imagined she would be. She was very plump 
(or faty you would call her if you did not like her). 
She had very bright yellow hair. She laughed and 
talked very loudly. Her laughter fascinated Flopsy. 
She had a dimple in one very round cheek. And 
her lips were very red. Every sentence that Flopsy 
used to describe Mrs. Muldoon to herself had a very 
in it. 

“Well, girlies, you can have the upstairs sitting 
room to work in tonight. You can work better all by 
yourselves. Pve left a box of candy up there for 
you. If you want anything else just whistle to me 
for it.” 

Mr. Muldoon came out into the hall at this minute. 
And he, too, was very fat and talked in a loud voice. 
He laughed easily and heartily. 

“Here is Fleurette’s new little girl friend. Hasn’t 
she pretty henna hair?” Mrs. Muldoon said. Flopsy 
did not know what she meant by henna hair. 

Mr. Muldoon patted her head. 

“I love all red-haired girls—big or little.” And 
then he winked. “So you two are going to do home 
work? Well! Well! I remember hearing Fleu¬ 
rette mention that word once, I think. Let me see— 




HOMEWORK 


61 


it was several years ago. She knew a girl who did 
some home work, and it made her cross-eyed.” 

Flopsy was very quiet, she did not know just how 
to take Mr. Muldoon. But when he mentioned the 
little girl who had become cross-eyed because she 
had done home work, Flopsy giggled. This seemed 
to please Mr. Muldoon, he wanted to have her laugh. 

“O.K.! Girlies, run along now.” Mr. Muldoon 
picked Fleurette up in his arms and landed her on 
the second step leading upstairs. “Run along, and 
don’t forget the little girl who got cross-eyes, because 
she did home work.” 

They needed no second request to run along. They 
dashed upstairs two steps at a time. 

The first thing the Flopsy did when she got into 
that upstairs sitting room was to discover the where¬ 
abouts of that box of candy. There it was, in plain 
sight, on a small table under a lamp. Her eyes lit 
up with satisfaction. It was very nice of Mrs. Mul¬ 
doon to leave it there for them. 

“I saw your friend, Alice Holt, this afternoon 
with a girl,” Fleurette said as she drew their chairs 
down to a big center table. Flopsy arranged their 
chairs so that Fleurette was facing the box of candy. 

“What did she look like?” asked Flopsy, staring 
hard at the candy box. 

“A littlish girl. Kinder fattish. She had on a 
green dress.” 

“Oh, that is Dottie Green. She is the biggest 
scared-cat in the whole world. Her right name is 
Euphemia. They called her Dottie, because she is 
only a c dotd ” Flopsy began taking her things out 
of the brief case. 

“Eu'phemia!” Fleurette shrieked with laughter. 



62 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“What a name! That is a rash you get all over your 
face. My cousin’s baby had it.” 

“Is it?” Flopsy echoed her shriek. 

“No, I think it is—Ex-phemia, anyway, it is some¬ 
thing like that. I’d just as soon have measles for a 
name as exphemia. Isn’t it crazy?” 

Flopsy laughed until the tears came to her eyes. 
She started to say, “Wait until I tell Alice,” and then 
she stopped short. She suddenly recalled that she 
was never going to tell Alice anything again. 

It took them several minutes to get over laugh¬ 
ing at Dottie’s name. Then Flopsy’s eyes lighted on 
her paper dolls. 

“Oh, look, I’ve brought my paper dolls with me. 
Did you ever make any?” She drew them out of her 
bag and threw them on the table. 

“Oh-o-!” Fleurette exclaimed. “Aren’t they 
beautiful? I love to make paper dolls. Oh, yours are 
just darling. I love the way you make faces. Let me 
see how you do them. Do one now. Here is some 
drawing paper.” 

Flopsy was very much flattered and pleased. She 
promptly took a pencil and began to draw a face. 
Her doll’s eyes had fabulously long lashes. Each 
lash was longer than the eye itself. They stuck out 
like the rays of the sun. The mouth was a tiny red 
“o.” Flopsy did not stop at drawing only a face. 
She drew the whole doll. Its feet were so small that 
had she been a real person she would have tumbled 
over and flattened out her nose if she had tried to 
stand on them. That is, if one could flatten out a 
nose that was only two round holes. To Fleurette’s 
intense delight Flopsy began to color the doll, with 
her crayons. Her mouth and cheeks were vivid red. 



HOMEWORK 


63 


Her hair was the color of the inside of an egg. 

“Her hair is something like the color of your 
mother’s,” Flopsy observed as she worked. “Your 
mother has so many nice colors in her hair. I like 
the yellow color better than the brown, don’t you?” 

“Well, my mother doesn’t seem to like so many 
colors in her hair,” Fleurette hastened to explain. 
“She says she is going to kill that girl in the beauty 
parlor. She likes her hair all one color. Oh, Flopsy, 
you are wonderful. Make me another paper doll 
for myself. I can make marvellous dresses, but I 
can’t make any kind of faces but these kind—” and 
she made faces by rolling her eyes around and stick¬ 
ing out her tongue. That made Flopsy go off into 
gales of laughter. 

“I tell you what” Fleurette said, suddenly struck 
with a brilliant idea. “I’ll get mother’s rouge, 
powder and lipstick, and we can have packs of fun 
putting it on. I’ll get them while you are doing my 
doll.” She darted out of the room. 

After she had gone, Flopsy looked over longingly 
at that box of candy. How could Fleurette forget it? 
She supposed that it would be rude to mention it. 
But she would hint. She had tried one little stunt in 
the past, and it often worked. She would ask for a 
drink of water. That would make Fleurette think 
of taking something inside of her. To be thirsty was 
next door to being hungry. 

Fleurette flew back into the room, her hands filled 
with small boxes and bottles. She laid them out on 
the table, with a broad grin. 

Flopsy smiled a little wanly. For the minute she 
looked as though she were exhausted from her 
drawing. 



64 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Oh, Fleurette!” she said as she wearily pushed 
back the curls from her forehead. “Let’s rest a 
minute. I am tired—a little. I wonder if you would 
please get me a drink of water.” 

Fleurette stared at her in consternation a minute 
before answering. Why, Flopsy was like a real 
artist—it took a lot out of her to make a picture. 
Her Uncle Jo had been like that when he had 
painted the walls of the kitchen and the breakfast 
nook. He had to stop every few minutes and take a 
rest. 

“Sure, Mike!” and she dashed right out of the 
room again. 

Flopsy sighed heavily. Supposing it did no good? 
She really had no desire for a drink of water. How 
could a girl forget a box of candy? 

Fleurette returned with a very tall glass of water. 
She had not let the water run and it was only luke¬ 
warm. She handed it to Flopsy, her eyes filled with 
admiration. Flopsy was simply wonderful! 

Flopsy took a gulp—and choked. She longed to 
spit it out, it was so warm. But she bravely went 
on drinking. 

“I always drink a lot of water, especially—” she 
stopped and looked up at Fleurette over the top of 
her glass—“when I’ve eaten sweets. We had some 
candy after dinner tonight.” 

“Oh—candy? ” Fleurette looked around the room. 
“We have some, too. I forgot, I was so excited. I 
wonder where mother left it?” 

Flopsy looked around too, as though to assist her 
hostess. 

“I wonder if that is it over on that table?” she 
hesitated as though not sure. 




HOMEWORK 


65 


“Yes, yes—” Fleurette took a long leap and 
grabbed up the box. 

“Could you eat any more? Or will it make you 
too thirsty?” 

“Oh, no!” Flopsy hastened to reassure her at 
once. “I think I could eat a piece now that I have 
had a glass of water.” 

Fleurette got the box and put it on the table be¬ 
side them. 

“Help yourself whenever you want a piece. We 
will leave it right here.” 

Flopsy was a different person at once. Fleurette 
was a wonderful friend! So generous! Sometimes 
she had had to hint a whole afternoon to Alice, 
and in the end it had not done any good. 

The two girls were in the wildest gay spirits as 
for the next fifteen minutes or so they dabbed rouge 
and powder all over their faces. They took turns 
before a small mirror on the wall. Then they 
smeared a very bright pink nail polish all over their 
nails. Flopsy had not had so much fun since—well, 
she couldn’t remember when! 

Once they had completed their decorations on 
themselves, they went back to drawing paper dolls. 
As they drew Flopsy told Fleurette everything 
that she could remember had ever happened in 
School Number Nine. Fleurette told in turn about 
the city in which she used to live. 

“This is a crazy town. They haven’t a Junior 
High School,” Fleurette said with some scorn. 

This did not altogether please Flopsy. She did 
not like to hear her town called crazy. 

“Sometime we are going to have a Junior High 
too,” she boasted. “And anyway, I like going right 



66 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


into a real high school, instead of a junior one, when 
I get out of the eighth grade.” 

Fleurette was not going to argue with Flopsy 
about anything at all. They were going to be far 
too good friends to quarrel—ever. 

“Goodness!” Fleurette exclaimed as she looked 
around the room. She was looking for a new subject 
to talk about. “Goodness, see what time it is! Where 
did the time go, anyway? Oh, goodness!! It is 
twenty minutes after eight. Mother said that she 
was going to give us some cocoa and cake at quarter 
of nine. Goodness. Maybe we’d better take out our 
home work.” 

“Goodness, yes!” Flopsy echoed. Cocoa and cake 
—that did sound nice—like a party. “Let’s do gram¬ 
mar first. I’ll help you!” she said magnanimously. 
It gave her the loveliest feeling of importance to be 
able to help anyone in school work. 

They each took a piece of paper and wrote her 
name on it—the date—the grade, and the word 
Grammar . 

“Do you like conundrums?” Fleurette asked 
quickly. 

“Ye-es,” Flopsy drawled. She hated them, for 
she had to always say “I give up” and then she had to 
wait for the other person to get very important and 
give her the answer. “O.K.! Ask me one.” 

“Do you know the difference between an ele¬ 
phant and a pound of sugar?” Fleurette did look 
very important when she asked this. 

“I give up!” Flopsy said promptly. 

“Oh, guess!” Fleurette begged. She was disap¬ 
pointed. It would be so much fun to have Flopsy 
“guess” wrong. 



HOMEWORK 


67 


“I can’t,” Flopsy repeated. “Tell me.” 

“I won’t unless you try to guess just once,” Fleu- 
rette announced. 

“Oh, heavens, there is no sense to it all. Oh, all 
right—” she saw Fleurette’s disappointment. “The 
elephant likes peanuts and a pound of sugar doesn’t.” 

“Oh—” Fleurette giggled. “That’s crazy! .I’ll 
tell you—” She drew a long breath, and brought 
out her answer dramatically. “Well, your mother 
better never send you to the store for a pound of 
sugar, if you don’t know the difference between it 
and an elephant. You’d just as soon bring home an 
elephant.” 

Flopsy held her head in her hand and groaned. 
Then, she remembered to laugh to please Fleurette. 

“That is nutty, did you ever see elephants for 
sale in a grocery store? I ask you?” 

“Fleurette! Are you nearly finished with your 
home work?” Mrs. Muldoon’s voice calling from 
downstairs broke in this bit of foolishness. “I have 
the cocoa almost ready.” 

“Goodness!” Fleurette looked down in dismay 
at her nearly blank piece of paper. “Oh! In a 
minute!” she shouted. 

“My face! My hands! Oh, glory!” Flopsy cried 
in horror. “I’ve got to get this stuff off!” Both 
girls made a beeline for the bathroom. 

Getting the rouge and powder off wasn’t so very 
hard, for with plenty of hard rubbing it came off 
on a clean towel. The nail polish would not 
budge. 

Both girls were in a panic. Soap, water and towels 
had no effect on it. Their nails remained a vivid 
glistening pink. They were thoroughly alarmed. 




68 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Oh, my mother will be—” Flopsy didn’t bother 
to finish. 

“My mother wouldn’t be so crazy about it either. 
She wouldn’t like me to use—” Fleurette did not 
bother to finish, either. 

“Girls!” Mrs. Muldoon called. “Ready!” 

“Oh, gosh!” Flopsy wailed. “What shall I do? 
Have you any sandpaper, may be we could scrape 
it off— Oh, glory!” 

“I know,” Fleurette had a bright idea. “I’ll get 
some of daddy’s razor blades, and we can scrape it 
off with them.” 

Flopsy groaned. What a mess! 

“Fleurette!” Mrs. Muldoon called once again. 
“Didn’t you hear me, honey?” 

Fleurette took two of her father’s blades out of 
the closet over the washstand. She gave one to 
Flopsy and took one herself. She flew out into the 
hall, and yelled down over the bannisters: 

“Mother, we have to wash our hands. We will 
be down in a second.” 

“All right,” Mrs. Muldoon called cheerfully. 

Flopsy let out one long puff of relief, and patted 
her chest. Whew! She felt as out of breath as 
though she had been running ten times around the 
block. She began scraping her nails savagely. The 
“stuff” began to disappear, but quite promptly she 
cut her finger, and it began to bleed badly. She 
grabbed a dainty pink towel off the rack and wiped 
her finger on it. She wiped it again—on another 
corner of the dainty pink towel. 

“Oh, glory, now look what I’ve done—just ruined 
this towel.” 



HOMEWORK 


69 


Fleurette glanced around the room with a sink¬ 
ing feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

“That’s all right, that is a guest towel. I guess you 
are a guest. But heck, the rest of the room looks 
like a whole bunch of murders.” 

Flopsy’s finger had no intention of stopping its 
bleeding, right away. She did not have a handker¬ 
chief. Fleurette dashed out of the bathroom and 
came back in a minute with one. 

“Here, wrap this around your finger. It’s one of 
mother’s handkerchiefs. Don’t say anything, be¬ 
cause I can’t tell whether it is a good one or not—” 

The two girls tumbled out of the bathroom and 
downstairs. They both had very red faces. To look 
at them one would never question the fact that they 
had just been working very hard. They were puf¬ 
fing and breathless when they sat down to the table. 

“Well, I must say you two look as though you 
had been doing a hard day’s scrubbing,” Mr. Mul- 
doon teased. “I honestly never expected you’d look 
so tired.” 

The use of the word scrubbing was not a happy 
one. Flopsy did not make any comment, she lowered 
her eyes, and guiltily kept her hands under the 
table. 

“Why, Flora, did you hurt your hand?” Mrs. 
Muldoon exclaimed a few minutes later— Flopsy 
had forgotten her finger and its bandage and had 
brought it clear above the table. “Whatever did 
you do?” 

“I cut it—” she began truthfully enough, but 
ended up rather far from it, “I was sharpening my 
pencil—” 



70 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“On one of my razor blades, Pll bet—” Mr. Mul- 
doon said with a broad grin. 

Flopsy gave him a weak and sickly smile. She 
said nothing. 

“Oh, I was only teasing you—” he hastened to 
reassure her. “But my darling daughter is apt to 
hand them around for almost anything.” He winked 
at Fleurette. Fleurette was far more brazen about 
what she had done than Flopsy. She winked right 
back at her father. 

“This cake is lovely,” Flopsy said in a sweet and 
tiny voice, and gave Mrs. Muldoon her most be¬ 
guiling smile. “IPs my favorite.” 

Flopsy left Fleurette’s house in such a wild rush 
that she forgot her father’s brief case and all her 
belongings. Fleurette rode over with her in the car. 
They hated to say good-bye. They were in a hi¬ 
larious humor, and they shouted their farewells so 
loudly and boisterously, that Mrs. Moore jumped 
to her feet in dismay. 

“Oh, dear, I hope that they have not wakened 
Frankie and Dickie.” She ran to the door. Flopsy 
tumbled into her arms. 

“Oh, mother, oh, mother—I’ve had a swell time. 
It was wonderful! Fleurette is a wonderful friend. 
We had cake, cocoa, and candies. And Mrs. Muldoon 
is so good-natured. And, mother, she has the pret¬ 
tiest hair! It is a lot of colors, mostly yellow. I just 
stared and stared. I never saw hair like it before.” 

“You did— what?” her mother protested in dis¬ 
may. 

“Stared—” Flopsy repeated in a meek, small 
voice. 

“Flora Madden Moore! You never did anything 



HOMEWORK 


71 


so rude. It is not kind or nice to stare and stare at 
people. They may think you find something very 
odd or wrong with them.” 

“Oh, mother!” Flopsy hastened to soothe her 
mother’s fears. “I told Fleurette that I liked all 
those colors in her mother’s hair—she knows I do.” 

Mrs. Moore sat down very suddenly. 

“Oh, Flopsy! Oh, Flopsy!” 

“Honest, mother, it’s all right. She thinks I am 
sweet and things like that. She said I was a little 
lady! Honest, mother.” Flopsy’s face was warm 
with pleading. “Honest.” 

“All right, dear. I certainly hope so. You are 
a lady, even if you do make a few mistakes. I 
don’t want to take the joy out of your good time. 
We will talk about this some other time. Right 
now, you must go to bed, honey. Kiss me good¬ 
night.” 

Flopsy threw herself into her mother’s arms. 

“Oh, mother! Oh, mother! I had such a good 
time.” 

Mrs. Moore’s eyes were warm with understanding. 

“Good night, my precious child,” and Flopsy 
darted out of the room. There were tears of happi¬ 
ness in her eyes. 

“By the way, how about that home work? You 
never mentioned it,” Mrs. Moore called after her. 
“Did you finish it?” 

“Well,” Flopsy took two steps at once and called 
back, “not quite.” She took two more steps at a 
leap. Then she made a dash for her bedroom door. 
That was a subject she did not care to go into any 
further tonight. 

She lay awake for a short time thinking over what 



72 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


a good time she had had (she had intended lying 
awake for a very, very long time). Just before she 
fell asleep, she remembered her father’s brief case. 

“Well, that’s O.K.—I can go over and get it 
before Monday—” It was a happy thought to go to 
sleep on—that she was to see Fleurette soon again. 



Chapter Five 

A Mis-adventure 

O N Monday morning Fleurette called for 
Flopsy and the two new friends went off 
to school together. 

They met Alice Holt on the way and her eyes 
snapped with temper when she saw her best friend 
with someone else. 

“All right for you!” she thought. “All right. 
Flora Moore.” 

Fleurette Muldoon felt very proud as she walked 
into the school yard that morning. For nearly two 
weeks she had been coming into this yard every morn¬ 
ing—alone. All the other boys and girls had friends 
but she had none. Now, she had a real true friend, 
with just the same ideas as herself. She glanced in 
Alice’s direction to see how Alice liked this new 
friendship. Alice frowned darkly. 

Flopsy was happy this morning and very excited. 
The other girls seeing Flopsy arm in arm with the 
new girl were suddenly curious to know what she 
might be like. Up to now, none of them had taken 
the least interest in her, but the fact that she was 
with Flopsy made them wonder. Flopsy and Fleu¬ 
rette found themselves in the center of quite a group. 

As Flopsy chattered in an excited fashion, she 
cast glances now and then at Alice to see how she 

73 


74 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


was taking it all. Alice was talking to Mary Howard, 
the brightest, but not the most popular girl in the 
Seven A. Flopsy heard Alice say: 

“She is Irish—you can always tell. They have 
either red hair or green eyes—” 

Flopsy didn’t catch the rest. That was enough. 
She was trembling with temper. The very mention 
of red hair by any of her schoolmates always an¬ 
gered her—and to come from her once best friend! 
She would never forgive Alice this, as long as she 
lived. 

“Are you Irish?” Flopsy turned to her new 
friend. Before them all, Fleurette Muldoon an¬ 
swered coolly and proudly: 

“Of course, in a way. My father was born in 
Ireland. You have an Irish name, my father said 
so last night.” 

Five pairs of eyes looked solemnly at Flopsy 
Moore and Fleurette Muldoon. 

Flopsy drew herself up and smiled dazzlingly into 
Fleurette’s face. To be Irish had been nothing to be 
proud of before. There were few Irish names in 
School Number Nine. Flora had always half re¬ 
sented not being with the majority. Now her new 
friend was Irish and didn’t care who knew it. It made 
Flopsy very contented. 

“I am very proud of my Irish name. My father 
told me there was a great poet by that name. But I 
am an American. So is my father. He went to 
France, in the war. So is my mother. My— (she 
faltered over the next word) descendants came to 
America in—(she faltered again) in, well sometime 
in the sixteen hundreds. They were in all our wars.” 

At this speech, delivered with great solemnity, the 



MIS-ADVENTURES 


75 


girls were all properly impressed. They admired 
Flopsy’s words and manner. 

“Oh! Say!” Flopsy burst out, changing the sub¬ 
ject. “Dottie, do you know Alice was copying from 
you yesterday?” 

Dottie Green burst into ringing peals of laughter. 

“Oh—Oh—” she sputtered between her laughs. 
“She must have got a beautiful mark. Poor Alice. 
I didn’t know a thing!” 

The others joined in her laugh. They tumbled 
into each other in their boisterous mirth. Then the 
bell sounded. They quieted down but occasionally 
one of them would suppress a giggle. 

Flopsy had finished her home work at the last 
minute—just as she had been doing for a long time. 
Mrs. Moore had commented somewhat dryly: 

“Really, Flopsy, it seems to be taking you as long 
to do that not quite finished, as it usually does for 
you to do all your home work.” 

As Miss Hilton took her red book into her hand, 
that morning, the room was so still one could hear 
a pin drop. Flopsy didn’t dare move. Her eyes 
were opened wide with anxiety, and were fastened 
upon Miss Hilton’s solemn face. Fleurette Muldoon 
did not look smiling. She was white and frightened. 
She did not even glance at Flopsy. It was one thing 
to boast about not caring but it was another not to 
care in school. Alice Holt looked ready to cry. She 
held her lips together very tightly so that they would 
not quiver. Mary Howard, the brightest girl in the 
seventh grade, was smiling coolly into Miss Hilton’s 
face, as though daring her to give Mary Howard a 
bad mark. 

“I am disappointed in this whole class. There is 



76 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


one thing, however, that does please me. The boys 
did splendidly. The boys lead the class this week.” 

Mary Howard’s eyes narrowed. She looked at 
Miss Hilton with great scorn. 

“Mary Howard’s paper,” continued Miss Hilton, 
quite unconscious of Mary’s scorn, “was the poorest 
she has ever given me. It was filled with careless 
mistakes. There wasn’t any excuse for them. Mary 
has become, I am afraid, very sure of herself—too 
sure. She will have to give up her seat in row one 
and sit in row two. 

“Flora Moore can stay where she is—and she will 
continue to sit in row six until she settles down to 
work. 

“Fleurette Muldoon, you may move your books 
to the desk behind Flora. 

“Alice Holt, you may stay where you are. Of 
course, Euphemia will sit right behind you, as your 
papers were very much alike. There were the same 
silly mistakes on both—although, I must add each 
of you had a few mistakes that were altogether origi¬ 
nal.” Miss Hilton spoke with some sarcasm. 

“Now,” she said later, “let us look about the 
room. Girls in row six, boys in row one. The boys 
may well be proud.” 

Alice put her head down on her desk and began 
to cry. Euphemia immediately followed her ex¬ 
ample. Dottie always cried at the least provocation. 
This was not the least provocation—it was a big 
one! In a few minutes the two girls were sobbing 
so that they could be heard all over the room. They 
sniffled, blew their noses—choked—sniffled. 

William Forbes put his head down too, and wiped 
his eyes with a blotter. Freddie Thompson saw him 







MIS-ADVENTURES 


77 


and laughed aloud. William raised his head, blotted 
away at his eyes so that everyone might see him and 
laugh. He was having a perfectly beautiful time. 
The class burst into noisy laughter. Euphemia and 
Alice cried louder than ever. 

Miss Hilton’s eyes flashed with indignation. 

“William Forbes, that will do for you. Your 
marks have not been so high that you can laugh at 
anyone. Leave the room.” 

“Euphemia and Alice you may go downstairs 
and wash your eyes.” Miss Hilton’s tone was kind. 

Flopsy’s anger at Alice melted—her warm affec¬ 
tionate heart was touched by her former friend’s 
distress. All thoughts of revenge vanished. 

After school, row six walked arm and arm up the 
street, a sad-eyed little party. They were all friends 
for the minute, friends brought together by a com¬ 
mon woe. This was not all of row six—the last two 
seats were occupied by boys, and not one of Flopsy’s 
friends had any use for boys. 

“There is one thing about being in the worst place 
in the class—you can’t get any lower. After you get 
used to it—it isn’t so bad. She can’t make an extra 
row out in the hall to stick you—” Fleurette was 
trying to cheer Flopsy the next day. 

“But she can put you out in the hall and make you 
stand,” suggested Flopsy gloomily. 

“Are you afraid of being out in the hall? I am 
used to it. When I was in the other school, I was 
out in the hall all the time. The minute I’d get into 
the classroom—it was pop right out into the hall. I 
was out in the hall more than any other person in the 
class—even boys. There were some awful boys in the 



78 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


class too—far worse than William Forbes! William 
Forbes is tame .” 

Flopsy was impressed, but she didn’t like Fleu- 
rette’s boasting that anyone was worse than William 
Forbes. William was the worst boy she had ever 
heard of. 

“Oh, William’s been very quiet lately—since his 
dog was poisoned, but he used to be awful. One 
time when our drawing teacher was in the room he 
raised his hand and said: ‘What is the use of draw¬ 
ing? My father says it is a waste of time. I am 
never going to make my living by it.’ Wasn’t that 
nerve?” 

“Not so much,” answered Fleurette, “because Miss 
Ward is easy. She lets everyone do anything they 
like. I guess he didn’t take a rise out of her. Now, 
if he said that to Miss Hilton—” 

“Good night!” Flopsy cried. “She would have 
killed him dead on the spot. Miss Ward never seems 
to care how much noise we make, or anything. But 
the boys are so fresh to her—they are just awful.” 

“I’ve been a goody-goody since I’ve been at this 
school—I’ve not been sent to the principal yet,” 
Fleurette observed coolly. “Have you been sent to 
the principal very often?” 

“No—not often,” Flopsy confessed. The fact was 
she had a wholesome respect for Mr. Morris— 
and the thought of going to his office was far from 
pleasant. 

“Let’s go today,” Fleurette suggested. 

“Where?” Flopsy asked weakly, as though she 
could not believe her ears. 

“To Mr. Morris’s office,” Fleurette repeated. 

“Y-ar-all right—” Flopsy agreed far from 



MIS-ADVENTURES 


79 


heartily. She had heard suggestions that she liked 
far better than this one. 

“Now—what will we do?” Fleurette was persist¬ 
ent. “I wish I could think of something—but I 
can’t right now.” 

“Neither can I,” agreed Flopsy very cordially. 
“Do you like green and red together? Edna White 
has a green dress and—” Flopsy was desperately 
trying to change the subject. 

“No, I don’t—it’s awful,” condemned Fleurette. 
“But, I’ve got an idea. Let’s be awful late—we’ll 
go to Mr. Morris’s office. I want to see what he is 
really like before I am sent to him often—” Fleu¬ 
rette proposed. 

“When?” Flopsy never wanted to be right in 
school as much as she did at this particular minute— 
but she was not going to let Fleurette know it. 

“Why, today, of course.” Fleurette seemed sur¬ 
prised at the question. Why, she had said today, 
hadn’t she? 

Flopsy sighed a little under her breath but agreed 
to Fleurette’s idea. She had never been really late 
before. 

“Let’s go down Chestnut Street and sit under a 
tree for a while. Come on.” Fleurette broke into a 
run. 

Flopsy hurried after her, now tingling with ex¬ 
citement. 

They met Mary Howard and Laura Cooper. The 
girls exchanged confused hellos. 

“What are they up to?” Laura asked of Mary, 
quite bewildered. “They will be late, and they are 
going in the opposite direction.” 

“That’s what always happens,” Fleurette said in 



80 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


comforting fashion to Flopsy. “When you do any¬ 
thing like this you always meet the very person you 
shouldn’t. Trust Mary Howard to do something 
mean. Oh, it’s going to be exciting!” 

“Yes, it is,” Flopsy answered, but not very en¬ 
thusiastically. The sight of Mary’s surprised face 
had dampened that brief flare-up of ardor in their 
undertaking. Somewhere in the back to her head, 
this question was going around and around— 

“Do you really get an awful lot of fun out of do¬ 
ing things like this, things you shouldn’t?” But she 
didn’t say a word about her doubts to Fleurette. She 
felt it was now too late. She must finish what she 
had begun, or Fleurette would think her a big 
coward. 

To tell the truth, Fleurette herself did not look 
any too happy. The two girls sat under a tree and 
waited. There didn’t seem to be much to say—they 
made little or no attempt at conversation. 

“Hey there! What are you two girls doing?” 
They both jumped nervously. It was only Harold 
Marsh. He was a “sis,” who never said a word 
usually. “You will be late—” he added as he hur¬ 
ried along. 

“Didn’t he make you jump? I thought he was—” 
Flopsy didn’t dare say who she thought it was, for 
fear Fleurette would think she was frightened. The 
minutes dragged. The sound of the school bell came 
to them, but they never moved. A heavy silence had 
fallen between them. Flopsy picked up a small twig 
and idly drew circles on the ground. 

“We are good and late now, I bet,” Fleurette said 
as though thoroughly satisfied. 

“Well, now!” cried a sharp voice behind them. 





MIS-ADVENTURES 


81 


Flopsy felt cold and shivery. The hot color rushed 
into Fleurette’s face. Neither girl turned her head. 
Somebody—a man—was standing over them and 
looking down upon the tops of their heads. Flopsy 
glanced sideways, and saw a very big pair of shoes. 
She shut her eyes for a second, as though to shut out 
the sight. 

“Who is it?” shot wildly through Fleurette’s head. 

“I know who it is,” Flopsy thought miserably to 
herself. 

“Why aren’t you two girls in school? The bell’s 
rung. You had better get a move on.” Flopsy saw 
a big rough hand coming nearer her shoulder. She 
wanted to scream. Instead she jumped to her feet 
and looked right at the owner of the hand. 

She had been right in her fears. It was Mr. Col¬ 
lins, the truant officer. Flopsy’s knees nearly gave 
way under her. 

“Get up,” Mr. Collins ordered, looking down 
sternly upon Fleurette’s head. 

Fleurette stood up and turned a very saucy face 
to the man. She did not know who he was. 

“Do I have to mind you?” she asked hotly. 

Flopsy’s eyes opened wide with horror at her 
friend’s question. Oh, goodness! 

“I’ll say you do. Yes, young lady, you have to do 
what I say. And not too many words about it.” 

“Who are you, anyway? You think you are very 
important, don’t you?” Fleurette asked defiantly. 

“You said it, I am important. And you will find 
out just how important in double quick time. Now 
scram—and right along to Mr. Morris’s office,” 
Mr. Collins said sternly. 

“Well, Mr. Important, who are you?” At the 



82 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


mention of Mr. Morris’s office Fleurette decided 
that perhaps she had better move. 

“Don’t give me an argument, young lady. I— 
well, ask your girl friend here who I am—she seems 
to know.” 

“Who is this big fresh person?” Fleurette looked 
at Flopsy. Fleurette was trying very hard to act as 
if this was all of no consequence to her. 

“The truant officer!” Flopsy was delighted at the 
opportunity to shake a little of Fleurette’s indiffer¬ 
ence. She would have preferred to have seen her a 
little frightened. 

“Oh,” Fleurette’s face went quite white. 

“So—now you think maybe that you will con¬ 
descend to come along with me?” Mr. Collins asked 
sarcastically. 

“I wouldn’t come with you unless I wanted to,” 
Fleurette said airily. She was trying very hard to 
be brave. Impertinence, Flopsy felt sure her mother 
would call it, instead of bravery. 

“It’s funny you changed your mind and wanted 
to come,” Mr. Collins observed. 

Fleurette laughed, “I just remembered Tuesday 
was a school day.” 

Mr. Collins was between the two girls. Fleurette 
argued every step of the way up the street. She was 
saucy, pert and very disrespectful to authority. Mr. 
Collins stood for authority in this matter. Flopsy 
hung her head in shame and walked along in 
wretched silence. Her thoughts were tumbled up 
in a miserable heap in her head— 

“Mrs. Addison lives on this street—she’ll tell 
mother that she saw me walking up the street with 
the truant officer. Maybe she will telephone before 



MIS-ADVENTURES 


83 


I get home—Mary Howard’s mother—Oh, dear, 
Mary Howard will tell the whole school. I wish 
Fleurette would stop talking, she’s making things 
worse by the minute—this isn’t such a pile of fun!” 

Fleurette did not stop talking—she wrangled with 
Mr. Collins right up into the front hall of the school. 

Mr. Morris was not in his office. Miss Ward, the 
drawing teacher, was talking to the school nurse, and 
they both turned surprised faces at the sound of 
Fleurette’s loud quarrelsome tones. 

“Some argument this young lady’s been giving 
me—” Mr. Collins explained to them. “Mr. Morris 
will have a few things to say to her, believe me!” 
and Mr. Collins frowned angrily down upon Fleu¬ 
rette. 

“Mr. Morris is interviewing the superintendent— 
Miss Hilton has been in charge this morning,” Miss 
Ward said quietly. 

Flopsy felt her knees weaken. Mr. Morris did 
not know much about her—this was the first time 
she had been brought to the office and she hoped he 
might be a little forgiving. But her record lately 
with Miss Hilton—? 

At that moment Miss Hilton appeared in the 
doorway with Mr. Morris. She was talking very 
earnestly and low. The minute she caught sight of 
her two pupils her eyes opened wide with surprise 
and dismay. 

“What are you two girls here for?” she asked 
sternly. 

Flopsy bit her lip to keep from crying and hung 
her head to hide the expression on her face. Fleurette 
looked up pertly into Miss Hilton’s face. “We 
were late.” 




84 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Late!” cried Miss Hilton horrified. “Why, Mr. 
Morris, what can this mean? Why are they here 
with Mr. Collins?” 

For a few moments everyone tried talking at 
once—each one interupting the other. 

“Flora Moore! I am thoroughly ashamed—dis¬ 
appointed in you. Mr. Morris, Fve worked so hard 
with her. Fve seen her mother—but it all seems 
useless. Now I find that she has led this new girl— 
oh, it is so disappointing.” Miss Hilton’s voice 
trembled a little. 

“I don’t think that one is as much to blame as 
this one,” Mr. Collins put in, pointing to Fleurette. 
“She was very impudent and bold. She kept answer¬ 
ing me back. That other girl never said a word, she 
just came along with me quietly—” Mr. Collins 
went on to tell of his troubles with Fleurette. Miss 
Hilton was shocked, Mr. Morris was indignant. 

“Do you realize what it means to resist a truant 
officer?” Mr. Morris asked sternly. “If Mr. Col¬ 
lins had not been good-natured, he might have taken 
you to the town hall. Do you suppose that your 
father would like being summoned to appear before 
the judge?” 

For the first time Fleurette showed that she was 
frightened. Her face was very white. 

“Answer me.” Mr. Morris’s face was grim and 
determined. 

“No, sir,” Fleurette said very low. 

“Apologize to Mr. Collins for your rudeness. He 
was only doing his duty, and he represents me out¬ 
side the building—” 

Fleurette began to cry stormily. Flopsy suspected 
that she was doing it half on purpose to escape apol- 





MIS-ADVENTURES 


85 


ogizing. The tables were strangely turned. Flopsy 
stood quietly by, only her lips trembling a little. 
She did not whimper or howl as her new friend was 
doing. 

Mr. Morris showed no signs of relenting. Fleu- 
rette’s tears did not melt his heart. He was deter¬ 
mined that she should apologize. She was equally 
determined that she would not. She continued cry¬ 
ing furiously. 

“Flora,” Mr. Morris had to raise his voice to be 
heard over Fleurette’s sobs, “you may go back to 
your room with Miss Hilton. Miss Hilton can do 
as she pleases with you. Fleurette, you may stay here 
until you do as I say.” 

Flora walked out of the office very unhappy and 
frightened. Miss Hilton followed her slowly up 
the stairs a few steps behind her. They climbed two 
flights of stairs in this fashion. Not a word was said. 
Down the long hall, Flopsy walked to the back of 
the building, with Miss Hilton following silently a 
few feet behind her. It was the most unpleasant walk 
Flora had ever had in her life. 

Miss Hilton never looked once in her direction 
all the rest of the morning. 



Chapter Six 

Old Friends Are Best 


F LEURETTE did not come back to the sev¬ 
enth grade classroom all morning. 

Strange thoughts filled Flopsy’s head. She 
wondered if Fleurette was wonderful after all. She 
began to regret her quarrel with Alice. Once or 
twice she looked around at Alice and smiled. It 
made her happy to have Alice smile back very 
sweetly. Only Fleurette J s empty seat was between 
these former friends. As Flopsy had felt sorry for 
Alice in her recent trouble so Alice felt for Flopsy 
now. Old friends were best, after all, Flopsy thought. 
Besides, would her mother approve of the way Fleu¬ 
rette had behaved? She was sure her mother would 
not. 

Flopsy and Alice walked home from school to¬ 
gether as they had so many days and weeks before 
Fleurette had appeared. Flopsy said very little 
about the morning’s experience. Alice felt some¬ 
thing was wrong and she was ready with her sym¬ 
pathy. She was glad to have Flopsy walking home 
with her again. She had missed her. 

Although Flopsy kept a sharp lookout for Fleu¬ 
rette she did not catch a glimpse of her. What had 
happened to her? 

“Hello—Flopsy-redhead. You will get sent to 
bed!” William Forbes bumped into her. 

Flopsy’s eyes blazed with temper. 

86 


OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 


87 


“Mind your own business, William Forbes. You 
are the—” 

“Worst boy in the school—” William finished 
gayly for her, “but I haven’t red hair—” 

Alice came to the defense of her friend. 

“I’ll tell your mother on you, Bill Forbes. Be¬ 
sides, red hair is pretty. And besides, Flopsy’s hair 
isn't red.” 

Bill Forbes let forth hoots of noisy laughter. 

“Milt, come here—just one moment—if you 
please. I’ve made a very inter-esting dis-cover-y. 
Yes, sir!” 

Milton Brooks and William linked arms and put 
their heads together. Bill whispered in Milt’s ear, 
with his eyes on the two girls and a very tormenting 
expression about his mouth. 

“Pretty?” the girls heard Milton say, and at that 
the two boys leaned against a telegraph pole to keep 
from falling to the ground in their great mirth. 

The two boys walked behind the two girls and 
their conversation began like this— 

“Red? Dear me no, not— red! But the most 
beautiful shade of green. Irish hate having red on 
top. They would rather have green, and green is 
such a sweet color for hair—” 

Flopsy had stood about all she could. She felt 
her cup of misery was full to overflowing. She broke 
into a run, with Alice close beside her. The two boys 
followed right at their heels—they couldn’t lose 
them. 

Flopsy stopped abruptly once to make a remark in 
a breathless fashion. 

“If there’s one thing on earth worse than a boy— 
it’s a low crawling worm.” 






Vv-w \0 


“She says red hair is—'pretty l” 



























OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 


89 


Those two boys followed the girls right to Flopsy’s 
front lawn. 

“So long, beautiful,” William shouted as Flopsy 
cut across her lawn, and dashed into the house. 

“Oh, mother!” cried Flopsy, “I hate school. I 
hate William. I hate red hair.” And Flopsy began 
to cry bitterly. 

Mrs. Moore had rather a difficult time trying to 
discover just what was the trouble. Of one thing she 
was determined—William must leave Flopsy alone. 
She planned to talk to him. William did not have 
a mean face—only a mischievous one. 

“Come Flopsy, dear!” her mother pleaded gently. 
“You must eat your lunch and then you will feel 
better. You are making yourself sick. It is not worth 
it. The best thing to do when boys tease you, is to 
either ignore them or laugh at them. They would 
soon get tired if they did not get a rise out of you.” 

“I feel sick now,” sobbed Flopsy. Her face was 
hot and feverish from crying. 

“Wash your face in cold water, little girl. You 
will be surprised to find how much better it will make 
you feel. Would you like me to call upon Miss Hil¬ 
ton again?” Mrs. Moore was really worried. She 
strongly suspected that it was not just the boys 5 
teasing alone that had upset Flopsy. 

“Oh, dear, no” Flopsy shook her head positively 
in answer to her mother’s suggestion. 

Flopsy did feel much better after she had washed 
her face, and had eaten her lunch. Her mother 
kissed her tenderly as she went off to school with 
Alice. 

“Remember—to laugh—the next time,” she 
called after her daughter. “LAUGH!” 




90 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Suddenly, the girls met Fleurette. Fleurette 
frowned when she saw Flopsy and Alice together. 

“Hello!” she said shortly. Her eyes were 
strangely red. 

“Hello,” Flopsy answered self-consciously. Alice 
all too plainly showed that she did not like Fleurette. 

“Well—” began Flopsy, and then stopped. 

“Well,” returned Fleurette. “I showed them a 
thing or two. Maybe my mother isn’t mad! ” Fleu¬ 
rette tossed her head in the air. 

“Did you?” Flopsy faltered, and then repeated, 
“Did you—” 

“No—of course not!” Fleurette answered sharply. 
She at once guessed what Flopsy was trying to ask. 
“Fancy apologizing to a man like that.” There was 
a great amount of scorn and contempt in her voice. 
Flopsy was suspicious of this attitude of Fleurette’s. 

“Are you coming back to the class this afternoon?” 
Flopsy ventured. 

“Why—yes—” Fleurette acted as though sur¬ 
prised at the question. 

And so Fleurette Muldoon took her place between 
Flopsy and Alice again. Fleurette never told how or 
why she was able to come back to the class-room 
again. 

For several weeks, Fleurette was almost well-be¬ 
haved in class. She appeared to have turned over a 
new leaf. Her class work was very much better. 
Of course, Flopsy too, was doing better work. She 
began to hope that her next test would move her at 
least to row three (she was now in row four). Even 
Miss Hilton, Flopsy felt, had experienced a change 
of heart and was letting her pass tests. 

Alice, Flopsy and Fleurette walked to and from 



OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 


91 


school together and the three girls were quite warm 
friends. 

It was towards the end of May and the word 
“promotion” was on every tongue. One day Miss 
Hilton said, just before dismissal: 

“I am pleased to see that some of you are work¬ 
ing very hard. I have decided to choose a few of the 
hardest workers to take part in the Memorial Day 
exercises. I have selected a poem for Flora Moore 
to recite, and one for Fleurette Muldoon. These 
two girls have worked very hard in the last few 
weeks.” Miss Hilton smiled very kindly at the two 
girls in row four. “And, although they have not 
had as good marks as some of the others of you in 
arithmetic—I am sure that they will recite very 
nicely. We shall be very proud of them. Besides, 
they are doing very much better work in arithmetic 
lately.” 

Fleurette held her head high—she was thor¬ 
oughly pleased with herself. Flopsy hung her head, 
a warm rich color rushed into her cheeks. She felt 
humble and embarrassed at this unexpected but wel¬ 
come praise. 

On the morning of the exercises a sudden idea 
came to Flopsy. 

“Mother, may I take Frankie to school with me— 
he’s never been to a school. He can wear his best 
suit—please!” coaxed Flopsy. 

“Why, Flopsy I thought that the teachers did not 
like small brothers and sisters brought to school. I 
wouldn’t blame them in the least if they didn’t.” 

“Not on regular school days—but on special days 
—that is different—especially if you are on the pro¬ 
gram. Please!” 




92 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Flopsy, who will take care of him when you are 
reciting? You know that he—” 

“Oh, he likes Alice. Frankie will stay with her. 
Don’t you like Alice, Frankie, dear?” 

“No, I don’t not,” Frankie answered crossly. 

“Oh, yes, he does, mother,” Flopsy corrected 
hastily. 

“Don’t be foolish enough to coax him,” Mrs. 
Moore shook her head. 

“Yes, I do! I want to go to Flopsy’s school,” 
and nothing could shake his new determination to 
go to school. 

Finally Flopsy left the house in high spirits with 
Frankie at her side. Flopsy did like having some¬ 
one from her family to hear her when she recited. 
Her mother had never failed before to be there and 
smile to her across the mass of children’s faces. 
Flopsy recited to her, and her proud and tender 
smile as she nodded her approval was Flopsy’s re¬ 
ward. But, Mrs. Moore had promised to see a very 
sick friend in the hospital today and so she could not 
hear her. 

“Hello, yo’ cunni’. Take Alice’s hand,” was 
Alice’s greeting upon seeing Frankie. Fleurette’s 
greeting—if it could be called a greeting was very 
different. 

“What did you bring him for? I’d never trot a 
kid brother of mine to school. Nothing doing.” 

“I—a—he’ll be awfully good.” Flopsy was dis¬ 
appointed at Fleurette’s manner. 

“I’ll bet!” Fleurette retorted rudely. “Is that 
your best dress?” she added with her eyebrows 
raised in a significant fashion. 




OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 


93 


“Not—my very very best, but my—” Flopsy hesi¬ 
tated. She acted as if she were ashamed of what she 
was saying. 

“I didn’t think so!” interrupted Fleurette. “My 
father’s in the business and I can always tell a real 
best dress.” 

“I think it is a very nice dress,” Alice put in 
warmly. Alice made a point of never agreeing with 
Fleurette on any subject whatsoever. 

“I suppose you know?” asked Fleurette dis¬ 
agreeably. “I suppose your father’s in the busi¬ 
ness?” 

“No, my father’s a lawyer—he doesn’t sell 
clothes.” Alice replied equally disagreeably. “Be¬ 
sides, fancy silk dresses are not what girls should 
wear to grammar school—” she glanced sideways 
at Fleurette. 

“Who said so?” Fleurette cried hotly. 

“I wanter—go—home—” Frankie wailed, he did 
not like the tone of the girls’ voices. He stood stock¬ 
still and refused to take another step. 

“Oh—Frankie! Lovely school! Frankie will 
have a fine time. Frankie is a big boy—four years 
old. Please be nice, Frankie!” coaxed Flopsy in 
tragic despair—almost on the verge of tears. 

“Let him go home if he wants to,” suggested 
Fleurette. 

“Sit wif Alice, dee little Frankie?” lisped Alice in 
baby talk. This baby talk made Frankie furiously 
indignant. He wasn’t a baby. 

“I wanter go home,” he shouted stormily. 

“I told you so! I told you so!” Fleurette tor¬ 
mented. 






94 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Miss-know-it-all, will you mind your own busi¬ 
ness?” snapped Flopsy. 

After coaxing, bribing, caressing Frankie for the 
next ten minutes he condescended to go along with 
them, but not too pleasantly. 

There was trouble in the air. 




A lice 

Chapter Seven 


Frankie Visits School 

F RANKIE was very good during the flag sa¬ 
lute, and the reading of the Twenty-Third 
Psalm. He nestled close to Flopsy in her 
seat. Miss Hilton came down the aisle and patted 
his hair. 

“What is your name?” she knelt down beside 
him. Frankie liked her at once. She did not call 
him little boy. But the power of speech had left 
him, he could only stare at her like a round-eyed 
owl. He buried his face in Flopsy’s sleeve. Then he 
took a peek at Miss Hilton out of the corner of one 
eye, and as she was still waiting for an answer, he 
hurriedly buried his face again. 

“His name is Franklin Emmet Moore!” Flopsy 
answered in a proud happy tone. At that minute 

95 









96 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Flopsy was the most envied and most important girl 
in the Seven A. 

Miss Hilton stroked his hair. “We are very glad 
to have you with us, Franklin!” 

Frankie gave her his sweetest, shyest smile. 

Flopsy wondered what Fleurette thought now of 
her mean and gloomy anticipations about Frankie’s 
coming to school. It was worth it coaxing Frankie 
to school, in spite of her mother’s doubts, in spite 
of Fleurette. 

The whole school marched into the auditorium. 
Every boy and girl in the whole school was tingling 
with excitement. The boys and girls who were to 
take part in the exercises found that this excitement 
got into the way of their breathing and thinking. 
Flopsy’s thoughts were in a tumble, all upside down. 
She wanted to run home—she wanted to stay and 
recite so splendidly and remarkably that she would 
startle them all. She quite forgot Frankie. He was 
with Alice. 

A little “One B” was the first to recite. She 
couldn’t be heard past the first row, but the school 
was delighted, because she looked so cunning and 
frightened. When they forgot their lines or looked 
frightened, it added to the interest and excitement. 

Flopsy couldn’t pay the least attention to anyone 
who performed ahead of her. She didn’t care what 
they did—she was waiting for her turn to dazzle 
them all. As the time drew nearer, however, this 
vain thought melted away—like something warm 
and bright in a cold blast. She could not think at 
all. What did that boy do? Why was everyone 
laughing? Was he supposed to be funny? Flopsy 
did not know. Her head felt as light—as light as 





FRANKIE VISITS SCHOOL 


97 


dandelion fluff—ready at any moment to float away. 
Her tongue was getting so dry. It did not feel like 
a tongue, it felt like a slice of hot potato. She glanced 
about the room and wondered why each child seemed 
to have four or five heads. She rubbed her eyes and 
looked again. 

“We will now sing My Own United, States ” she 
heard Miss Southworth say. 

Flopsy knew that they must be singing right in 
the room with her, but they sounded like a chorus 
of angels singing far off on a fleecy cloud. 

“In Flanders Field ,—recited by Flora Moore 
of the Seven A,” called Mr. Morris in a clear voice. 

Flopsy was on her feet in an instant, as if in a 
dream, she walked to the front of the auditorium 
and up onto the platform. She felt that her feet, 
head, mouth and curls looked very unnatural. She 
had a hair ribbon around her head in the fashion of 
Alice in Wonderland. She rarely wore a ribbon, and 
she felt as though the whole school was looking right 
at it. She wondered a little wildly, if it were cock¬ 
eyed. 

To her surprise and delight, the words came out 
of her mouth clearly and distinctly, just as she had 
rehearsed them. She said her piece with expression 
and firmness. Her mother would have been proud 
had she been there. Flopsy had an unusual voice for 
a girl of twelve—it was rich and deep. She was 
pretty proud of herself as she took her seat. As she 
sat down she peered eagerly about to find the smiles 
of admiration, that she felt must be waiting for her. 
And she found them, too! 

Everything was so different now, each child had 
one head, and her own head felt secure and safe on 




98 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


her neck, her tongue was a tongue again and not a 
slice of hot potato. Now she could relax, and listen 
in comfort to the others as they did their parts. 

Fleurette’s turn came second from Flopsy. Her 
silk dress swished as she strutted up the front. She 
was cool and untroubled. 

Then Flopsy remembered Frankie. To her hor¬ 
ror Alice was struggling to keep him in his seat. He 
was twisting and squirming to get away from her. 
What was going to happen? Alice looked as though 
she might have to surrender at any minute. Other 
eyes besides Flopsy’s were watching the tussle. It 
interested them more than Fleurette’s piece, for she 
was reciting like an express train—flying past stops. 
She rattled along at a dreadful rate. She felt this 
proved that she knew it very well, and that she did 
not have to stop and think of words. Her piece was 
being swallowed up in this rush of words. 

“I want my dinner!” yelled Frankie shrilly. “Let 
me go! ” 

The factory whistles were blowing for twelve 
o’clock, and Frankie had been told over and over 
again, when he heard those whistles to come in for 
his lunch. He had been punished when he had not 
done so. And now he was tired and hungry. Fleu- 
rette’s monotonous rush of words did not interest 
him at all. 

“Let—me—go!” he wailed again and he sobbed 
lustily with great big sobs. 

Alice let him go. 

The auditorium was in confusion. Fleurette had 
just finished her recitation and had fled to her seat 
unnoticed. The children were stretching their necks, 
standing up, laughing, talking. 



FRANKIE VISITS SCHOOL 


99 


Miss Hilton came flying to the rescue. 

“Take him home, Flora,” she said. “Quickly!” 

And Flopsy, a dull miserable red all over her face, 
took her small brother by the hand, and led him out 
of the auditorium. Just as she went out the door a 
loud shout of laughter followed her. Even Mr. 
Morris was smiling. 

There was no school in the afternoon—the school 
was dismissed for the day at one o’clock. 

Alice found Flopsy sitting in a dejected position 
upon her porch later in the afternoon. 

“Hello! ” Alice greeted her gayly. 

“Hello!” Flopsy returned gloomily. 

“Say, Flopsy! What do you think? Fleurette is 
mad at you! Mad as hops! ” Alice was plainly over¬ 
joyed at her news. 

“She is?” Flopsy answered crossly. “What for?” 

“Because she said Frankie spoiled her piece—that 
you did it on purpose—that I pinched him—that you 
were jealous and did not want her to do well, that 
you brought Frankie on purpose to spoil her piece— 
that you recited too loud, that your hair ribbon looked 
funny—and—” Alice took a long breath and then 
went on, “Now, if you had paid attention to her 
and had sent Frankie home, it wouldn’t have hap¬ 
pened—that it is only poor kids who have to drag 
their kid brothers along with them—and—” 

“Is that— all?” Flopsy blazed sarcastically. 

“No—” Alice began again, this time her own eyes 
glittered with anger. “She said that I thought I 
was too good for everybody—that you said mean 
things about me, that you were two-faced—that you 
said I copied—” Alice was now on the verge of 
tears. She was, as she should be, very much ashamed 


> > 
> 3 3 


> , > 



100 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


of that bit of dishonesty. She had made up her mind 
never to copy again—and she had kept that reso¬ 
lution. 

“Well—” Flopsy drew a deep breath. “Well, I 
know what I think of her.” 

“She’s awful!” Alice condemned quietly and 
firmly. 

“Awful!” agreed Flopsy soberly. 

“Her old piece was finished before Frankie be¬ 
gan,” Alice remarked. 

Flopsy said nothing for a few minutes. She was 
busily thinking. 

“Wait—just wait till I tell my mother. She won’t 
let me go with her any more!” Flopsy found much 
comfort in the thought that her mother would be 
very shocked at Fleurette’s behavior, and that she 
would at once end the friendship. 

“Of course you won’t be allowed to play with her 
any more. She isn’t lady-like,” Alice heartily agreed. 

“Lady-like?” Flopsy laughed scornfully. 

“You will never be a friend of hers again, Flopsy?” 
Alice asked anxiously. 

“Never— never!” replied Flopsy firmly. 



Chapter Eight 

Memorial Day 


T HE next morning Flopsy stretched and 
yawned in bed like a lazy little kitten. She 
was happy and content. It was a holiday, 
and there was nothing she liked better than a holi¬ 
day with a big parade. Besides, she was very, very 
glad at her old friend Alice, and very, very mad at 
her new friend Fleurette. It was hard to say which 
fact gave her keener satisfaction. She had had such 
good cause for being mad at Fleurette, and no one 
on earth could say that she had been in any way to 
blame—for she had done nothing at all. She had 
not yet told her mother the story! But just wait 
until she did! 

Alice was to come and call for her, and they were 
not only going to see the parade together, but they 
were going to follow it to the cemetery. For the last 
three or four years, on Memorial Day, she and Alice 
had walked along the sidewalk, keeping up with the 
parade until it disbanded at the War monument. 
They waited to read all the cards on the wreaths left 
by various patriotic organizations, which were always 
left at the base of the monument. Then they walked 
about the cemetery for an hour or so, reading inscrip¬ 
tions on the tomb-stones, and noting the new graves 
within the year. They always felt very sweet and 
mournful when they left for home. 

101 


102 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Flopsy at last sprang out of bed and dressed in 
eager anticipation, anxious to be off and through with 
her little tasks about the house. Mrs. Moore never 
delayed her, never made her late for the parade—it 
would be too cruel. Her eyes were sparkling and 
dancing with excitement as she tried to eat her break¬ 
fast. She wriggled like an eel on her chair. 

“There is only one thing that I don’t like about 
Memorial Day,” she complained to her family. 

“Is there anything that we can do to help you like 
it completely?” her father asked kindly. 

“Well,—” Flopsy reflected, “Dottie Green always 
puts flowers on her little brother’s grave and her 
Aunt Helen’s 5 Mary Howard has five graves to 
decorate—her father’s, her grandmother’s, her two 
grandfathers’, and her sister’s. William Forbes has 
two grandfathers’, two grandmothers’, an aunt’s and 
a baby brother’s—. And I—” she faltered, “have no 
grave, no place to put flowers.” 

Her father tipped his chair back and looked at her 
sympathetically. 

“That is indeed most unfortunate.” 

“Yes,” continued Flopsy, the radiance gone from 
her face. “There isn’t one person I know who hasn’t 
a grave to put flowers on but—me.” 

“And—” continued Mr. Moore soberly, “upon 
which one of us, your mother, Dickie, Frankie or me, 
would you like to plant a pot of geraniums this 
beautiful Memorial Day?” 

Flopsy was taken back, speechless. She had no 
answer—she was utterly confused. 

“I am going to put up the porch screens this morn¬ 
ing, and I might manage to fall off the ladder and 




Upon which one of us would you like to plant 

'pot of geraniums?” 




























104 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


break my neck to please you. But I can’t see just how 
that will help you much today, for I can’t see how 
the details can be rushed through in time. At least, 
not for this morning.” 

Mrs. Moore was laughing, but Mr. Moore was 
apparently very serious. 

“Well,” Flopsy managed to get her wits together. 
She felt her father was, as usual, making fun of her. 
“Well, I don’t want anyone in this house.” 

“I thank you. We all thank you,” her father was 
greatly relieved and very grateful. “We appreciate 
that, at least.” 

“But, goodness! We must have someone dead— 
somewhere, haven’t we?” she complained in an¬ 
noyance. 

“My dear!” Mr. Moore turned to his wife. 
“What can we do? What can we do? Can’t you 
manage to dig up—and re-bury a few ancestors ? Your 
Uncle Peter was a great wanderer in life, he hated 
staying put anywhere. I can imagine it would please 
him if we moved his grave from time to time. If we 
moved from this town we could take him with us so 
that Flopsy might have a perfectly happy Memorial 
Day, year after year. Don’t you think we could have 
him brought to town?” 

Flopsy frowned. She knew now that her father 
was teasing. 

“Don’t look so annoyed, my darling daughter,” 
Mr. Moore soothed. “I think before the year is out 
some real solution will come to me. But for—today? 
Can’t you share Alice’s grandfather? Perhaps you 
could get some fun out of placing a flower on Jere¬ 
miah Micah Holt’s grave? Next year you could let 
Alice put a plant on your Great Uncle Peter’s grave. 



MEMORIAL DAY 


105 


That is, if nothing better turns up. As I recall, Alice 
was born after her grandfather’s decease?” 

Flopsy looked upon her mother and smiled faintly. 
She did not know just why she smiled, but somehow 
her father sounded silly. Anyway, Mrs. Moore was 
laughing now very heartily. There were tears in her 
eyes. Flopsy felt a trifle self-conscious, and just a 
little foolish. 

After the breakfast dishes were washed, from way 
down Main Street came the sound of martial music. 
Flopsy fairly leaped into the air, her blood all 
a tingle. 

“Oh, Alice is late! ” she squealed, her heart pound¬ 
ing. “She is late, we will be late! I wish she’d 
hurry. I hear the music. They are playing Over 
There. Oh, dear, where is Alice?” Flopsy dashed 
to the front windows, and the side windows, and back 
to the front windows. 

“Oh, Alice, where art thou?” sang her father 
from upstairs. 

“Oh, there she is! Oh, joy, oh, boy, here she is!” 

Alice flew into the house without ringing the bell. 
She and Flopsy fell rapturously into each other’s 
arms. 

“It’s coming, Flopsy. Let’s beat it,” Alice cried, 
every bit as excited as Flopsy. 

“I hope you have a lovely time, girls.” Mr. Moore 
shouted down over the balustrade. “Flopsy, if you 
come up here, I will give you a quarter. Buy a 
flower for some grave—use your discretion. Perhaps 
you may find some forgotten grave—” 

Flopsy leaped up the stairs, two steps at a time. 

“I’ll find a soldier’s grave.” 

Then Mr. Moore was really serious, and he 



106 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


looked down upon his daughter with tender pride. 

“I think that would be in the spirit of this beauti¬ 
ful holiday.” 

Flopsy walked down the stairs solemnly. But 
the sound of the Boy Scout’s band playing Stars and 
Strifes Forever set her blood on fire, and she grabbed 
Alice’s hand in hers and together they dashed from 
the house and tore up the street. 

For some time they stood on the edge of the curb, 
quite speechless, and throbbing from head to foot 
with the rhythm of the music and the sight of the 
sailor boys in blue and the long ranks of khaki. 

“I like parades, but I guess I wouldn’t like war. 
It makes you cry.” Flopsy shivered a little. 

“Neither would I,” Alice answered soberly as 
they walked quietly down the shaded street that led 
to the cemetery. The parade was over and many 
people had gone into the graveyard ahead of them. 
Both of the girls were more interested in a lonely 
soldier’s grave than they were in Jeremiah Micah 
Holt’s grave. They wandered about for some time, 
but they found that there were no graves of “lonely 
and forgotten” soldiers—for on each grave where a 
soldier lay, was a small American flag, and many 
flowers. Not one was forgotten. 

So, at last, with a feeling of reverence and awe, 
Flopsy knelt down beside Mary Howard’s uncle’s 
grave who had died many years after the war. He 
had died in the end because of wounds he had had 
in the Argonne. Flopsy could remember him, lean¬ 
ing on a cane, as he stopped to tease her when she 
was only a baby. It was as far back as she could 
remember. Her mother had told her that he had 
been the town clip—up to everything all the time. 



MEMORIAL DAY 


107 


He loved all babies, especially had he loved chubby 
little red-haired Flopsy Moore. His own little niece, 
Mary, was almost too proper a baby for his taste. 

Then the girls walked over to Jeremiah Micah 
Holt’s grave. Alice sat down on an iron bench, and 
Flopsy squatted down on the footstone belonging 
to “Dorcas, beloved wife of Ezra McCarter, who 
entered eternal rest on June 11th, 1828 .” 

“She must have died before the Spanish-American 
War,” Flopsy remarked casually. 

“Just—a little, just a little!” said a voice near 
them. 

Both girls jumped in alarm. A voice, suddenly 
coming from nowhere in a cemetery, is enough to 
make anyone jump. They looked up a little wildly, 
only to find a tall soldier standing near them, in an 
officer’s uniform. He had a cane in one hand. He 
was smiling and did not, in spite of their momentary 
fear, look in the least spooky. 

“I’ll bet,” he went on, “that I know your name.” 
He was looking right at Flopsy. 

She blushed and opened her eyes wide with sur¬ 
prise. Her lips parted breathlessly. Maybe there 
was something spooky about him after all. She 
couldn’t remember seeing him before. 

“It’s Flopsy, if I am alive and kicking,” he an¬ 
nounced. His eyes were twinkling. “I never for 
one minute have forgotten you, but alas, Flopsy 
Moore, you have forgotten me, I am afraid, unless 
you are holding out on me because I used to tease 
you when you were a baby—” Very gently he 
touched her foot with his cane. 

Flopsy tumbled backwards off her footstone and 
sprawled all over Dorcas’s grave. She lay there 



108 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


speechless for a second or two. This must be Mary 
Howard’s uncle, upon whose grave she had just 
placed a flower! He used to poke his cane at her little 
fat legs. 

“Flopsy!” Alice shrieked. “You mustn’t lie on 
a grave that is not yours.” 

Flopsy sat up—looking quite as though she wished 
the grave were hers. Her face was very white. 

The soldier laughed so heartily that it echoed 
strangely in the quiet and peaceful cemetery. 

“Forgive me, I should not laugh like that. But 
Flopsy, you looked so funny, just as though you had 
seen a ghost. I am very much alive,” he reassured 
them. “I have known you for many years. Your 
father and I were in France together. And we came 
back together. Yes, Flopsy, I did come back— 
I was not killed over there. The last time I saw 
you, you were standing on the side lines watching me 
go by in a Memorial Day parade. You were a very 
little girl then, now I see you are growing up. You 
kicked my uncle in the shins quite unmercifully be¬ 
cause he got in your way for you wanted a better look 
at me.” 

Flopsy smiled doubtfully. She looked at his cane 
intently, with a puzzled frown. The soldier followed 
her gaze and looked down at his cane. He sat down 
beside Alice on the iron bench. 

“I wasn’t killed and I was not wounded. This cane 
does not belong to me. One of the men left it in 
my car. Flopsy, you and I once had a nice long talk 
together. You asked me many, many questions. And 
when we parted, you hugged and kissed me good¬ 
bye.” 

Flopsy blushed furiously. 



MEMORIAL DAY 


109 


“You are a Captain,” Alice announced. She had 
been eyeing him intently. 

“You are quite right, and how did you know?” 

“You have two gold bars on your shoulder.” 

“Smart girl!” 

“And you are an aviator,” Flopsy burst out, her 
eyes shining. It was the first second that she had 
completely lost her fear. “You have got wings.” 

“That is what I have insisted. They sprouted 
long ago. But very few people are fair enough to 
admit it as frankly as you do,” he made such a funny 
face that both girls giggled. 

“By the way, Flopsy Moore, won’t you introduce 
me to your friend?” 

“Oh, that’s Alice Holt,” Flopsy announced 
proudly. “She is my best friend. We have been 
friends since we were born.” 

“Is that so? And I bet you never quarrel.” 

“No,” Flopsy answered proudly, and without a 
blush. “Hardly ever,” she added as an afterthought. 

“You know, I am wondering, but I wouldn’t ask 
for the world what your age is now,” their captain 
looked up at the sky as though he did not expect 
an answer. 

“Twelve! And Alice is twelve, too. You don’t 
know Dottie Green, but she is eleven. Mary Howard 
likes to tell every one that she is ten and in the 
same class with us. It is a gyp. Her birthday is al¬ 
ways just two or three days after school closes. She is 
only a year and two months younger than me. You 
would think she was two years younger—and I was 
very dumb and she was very smart.” 

“Well, I say, that doesn’t sound fair! I don’t 
think I’d like that girl. So you two are twelve. A 



110 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


dozen years! Fine! How have they been with you?” 

“Very unlucky. It’s terrible, isn’t it Alice? I 
have had the worse luck ever since the day I was 
twelve.” 

Alice nodded with emphasis. They were, Alice and 
Flopsy, this day in perfect agreement about every¬ 
thing. 

“Is that so?” the captain asked in great interest. 
“And how is that?” 

“Well, the day I was twelve school got just 
awful.” 

“What school do you go to?” 

“Number Nine!” both girls shouted at once. 

“You shouldn’t ask! It’s the best school in town 
or anywhere, even if that old pill on the Board of 
Education—old man Bats, says it isn’t.” Flopsy went 
on hotly, her eyes flashing as she thought of him. 

The Captain drew in his lips with a short low 
whistle. There was a very peculiar expression on his 
face. 

“You don’t mean to tell me that Mr. Bates, ex¬ 
cuse me, you said Mr. Bats, didn’t you? You don’t 
mean to say that this bird said Number Nine was not 
the best school in town?” he asked in apparent horror. 

“He did, didn’t he, Alice?” 

“He certainly did!” Alice condemned severely. 
“But he is just nutty.” 

“Perhaps he didn’t say it—perhaps it is only gos¬ 
sip. You know how things get around.” 

“We both heard him with our own ears and saw 
him with our own eyes. He came right into our 
classroom. He is mean and contemptible.” Flopsy 
glared ahead of her angrily. 

“He is always hanging around,” Alice went on. 




MEMORIAL DAY 


111 


a He is popping in our room every minute. He is a 
big sneak.” 

“He said Number Five was the best school in 
town—isn’t that crazy? They never win at baseball 
—Number Nine always does. On Field Day we 
always win everything in sight. It’s a dirty, tumble- 
down school. You know what it is like! The toughest 
children go there! At baseball games they try pick¬ 
ing fights with us—they cheat and do funny things.” 
Flopsy had worked herself into a royal rage. She 
was rocking back and forth on the footstone belonging 
to “Dorcas, beloved wife of Ezra McCarter.” 

“And he says our seventh grade was the worst in 
the town,” Alice chimed in viciously. “He is the 
meanest, craziest old crank.” 

“He’s got a face like this,” and Flopsy pushed out 
her under lip and looked as black and frowning as 
possible. 

“If I ever met him I’d tell him to keep out of our 
classroom, and to mind his own business,” Alice 
bragged recklessly. “I’m not afraid of him.” 

“If I were Miss Hilton,” Flopsy was fairly in¬ 
toxicated with the luxury of saying anything that 
came into her head, “I’d tell him to get out of the 
room. She’s much too nice to him. You can easily 
see that she is afraid of him. She lets him say any¬ 
thing. If I were a teacher and any one fresh like 
that came into my room and said my class wasn’t 
the best in the world, do you know what I’d do?” 
Flopsy drew a long breath so that she could go on 
with another blast of outraged feelings. 

“Just one minute—what did you say your teach¬ 
er’s name was?” their captain asked abruptly, and 
with intense interest. 




112 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Miss Hilton!” Flopsy shouted. “And is she an 
old crank? I’ll say she is!” 

“You don’t say,” he exclaimed this time in sincere 
surprise. 

“Yes, she won’t let us breathe. We have to work 
and work. We can’t have a bit of fun in school. You 
can’t even move your eyes like this or she will holler.” 
Flopsy illustrated what she meant by rolling her eyes 
sideways. 

“I’ll bet that the boys don’t do as she says, do 
they?” he asked. “Boys are pretty bad in school. I 
am afraid I was myself.” 

“Oh, don’t they?” Flopsy cried in derision. “You 
should see Bill Forbes! He’s the worst boy in the 
school, but in our class he is as meek as Moses. He 
used to act pretty fresh last term, when we had so 
many substitutes. He was awful. You could hear 
our class all over the school. But he doesn’t try and 
get wise with Miss Hilton. Does he, Alice?” 

“He does— not!” Alice was emphatic. 

“Is she the crankiest teacher you ever had?” 

“The crankiest teacher I ever had or ever heard 
of.” Flopsy rocked so vigorously that she nearly fell 
back on Dorcas again. 

“What does this cranky old teacher look like?” 
their captain asked in great curiosity. 

Flopsy and Alice stared at each other quite blankly. 
Flopsy wrinkled up her face and frowned. 

“She’s not exactly old,” Flopsy ventured. “She’s 
sort of young and she’s got dark brown hair. Some¬ 
times she wears a brown dress.” 

“A perfect description,” the captain remarked 
thoughtfully. “Isn’t she ever nice?” 

“Well—” Flopsy faltered. 



MEMORIAL DAY 


113 


“Well, yes, Flopsy—you—remember—” Alice 
began. 

“Oh, yes, when she first came she was nice. She 
used to have curly bobbed hair, and we thought she 
was like a movie actress. She used to tell us about the 
west, and coyotes and things like that. Well, she 
used to be nice.” Flopsy said in a patronizing man¬ 
ner. 

“You must have a fearful time between ‘old man 
Bats’ and this Miss Hilton.” 

“Oh, it is terrible! You can’t breathe! We have 
to work harder and harder. Oh, boy, do I hate 
school!” Flopsy shouted, and tumbled flat again, all 
over Dorcas, beloved wife of Ezra McCarter’s grave. 
She lay still and looked up at the cloudless blue sky 
above her for a few minutes, and then rolled over and 
over in keen enjoyment. It was a rare treat to be 
able to say all she thought to a grown person. 

Alice was properly scandalized. 

“Flopsy, that looks— awful . Get up!” she com¬ 
manded. 

Flopsy set herself firmly on the footstone again. 
One could not describe the captain’s expression. 

“What does your mother think of all this?” 

Alice and Flopsy exchanged glances. 

“Oh, mother sort of—likes Miss Hilton. She 
got around my mother. Mother even thinks she’s 
pretty.” 

The captain looked so immensely pleased at this 
that Flopsy stared at him in surprise. Why should 
he be pleased because her mother thought Miss Hil¬ 
ton was pretty? 

“Oh, she does, does she?” he asked with a broad 
grin. “Don’t you think’ that she is pretty?” 



114 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Well, she is in a way, Flopsy,” Alice put in. 
“Don’t you remember the time she wore that blue 
dress? The boys all thought that she looked swell. 
She was going somewhere after school, and she was 
all dressed up.” 

The captain beamed. He was extraordinarily satis¬ 
fied with this recollection of Alice’s. 

“She is pretty, but a strict teacher and one who 
makes you sit up and take notice.” 

Flopsy frowned faintly. She did not like the too 
evident approval in his tone and manner. 

“She’s a cranky old teacher,” she pouted, “and I 
won’t get promoted.” 

“You know, I think she is very pretty myself,” 
he remarked, as though thinking aloud. 

Flopsy and Alice stared at him in holy horror. 
The silence that followed was beyond description. 

“Do you—do you—” Flopsy choked and in a 
hollow voice asked, “Do you know her?” 

“Not your Miss Hilton!” he answered promptly. 
“I was thinking of a Miss Hilton that I do know. 
The one I know is always pretty, always sweet. Your 
description does not fit my Miss Hilton. Not at 
all!” 

The two girls were still very uneasy. 

“Why girls, even if I were ever to meet your Miss 
Hilton, do you think for one minute that I would 
violate your confidence? Please remember that I am 
an officer and a gentleman. I want you to believe that 
Number Nine is my favorite school. That I am sure 
your seventh grade is the very best in town. Why, 
if I met your Miss Hilton, the first thing I would 
say to her would be, ‘Hey there, please remember 



MEMORIAL DAY 


115 


that you have a wonderful class. And above all 
things don’t let old man Bats frighten you. Tell him 
where he gets off. 5 

“We have been friends this morning, haven’t we? 
Fine friends. I have enjoyed this talk more than I 
can say. I’ve learned a lot of things from you girls. 
I am your most loyal rooter for School Number 
Nine, and most particularly the seventh grade in 
that school. I’ll get after that old man Bats myself. 
I promise you that.” 

“Don’t mention us!” Alice looked alarmed. 

“Why, girls, you hurt me. I am surprised at you,” 
and his laugh rang so true and sincere that they both 
joined in giggling wildly. 

“The old wretch!” he sputtered between laughs. 
“The great big scoundrel. Now don’t you tell on 
me,” and then they all went off into gales of laughter 
again. 

“The next time he is in your room, don’t get up 
and tell him that I called him names, will you?” 
their captain sputtered, wiping his eyes. 

“Imagine! Alice,” Flopsy squealed. “Oh, good¬ 
ness.” 

“He is a big shot around town, I imagine, and if 
he knew I called him a ‘scoundrel’ he would not let 
me parade on Memorial Day—” He stood up and 
looked down at the two girls in a foolishly pleading 
fashion. 

“Let’s go,” and Flopsy jumped to her feet. The 
idea of walking out of the cemetery with this hand¬ 
some captain appealed to her. 

And so, the big six foot captain strolled along the 
path that led out of the cemetery, with an exceedingly 



116 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


proud small girl on either side of him. They each 
one hoped that she was being observed, envied and 
commented upon. 

He shook hands with them in parting as though 
they were grown-up. 

“I certainly wish that your Miss Hilton was as 
pretty and sweet as mine. Some day I hope that I 
may have the pleasure of introducing you to the 
Miss Hilton I know. You will get a big surprise, 
I am sure. And, as for Mr. Bates, he had no business 
to come into your room and say Number Nine is not 
the best school in town. In fact he ought not try and 
scare you—or your teacher. That is all wrong. Re¬ 
member, I am your friend.” 

Flopsy shook hands with him, immensely happy. 
After he had shaken hands with Alice he bowed low, 
saluted, and marched away. 

“Isn’t he wonderful? I hope I see him again. 
Wasn’t it funny that he knew a Miss Hilton? For 
a moment I was scared stiff.” Flopsy drew a long 
breath. She stood staring after him. “I wish he 
would take us up in his aeroplane. I know—I wish 
he’d take Mr. Bats up and drop him out in—in—” 
Flopsy fished about in her mind for a good place to 
have Mr. Bates dropped. Some remote and un¬ 
thinkable place. 

“In Fleurette’s living room—” Alice suggested, 
and both girls giggled at the very idea. 

“And, supposing she was just saying ‘That old 
crazy Bats was sneaking around again,’ and sup¬ 
posing he just heard her!” 

“Oh, gee, wouldn’t that be peachy? ” They laughed 
so hard that they had to hold their sides. 

“Are you still mad at her?” Alice asked anxiously. 







MEMORIAL DAY 


117 


“Madder.” 

“Did you tell your mother about her?” Alice 
wanted to be sure about the mad Flopsy had on 
Fleur ette. 

“I haven’t told her yet—but just wait till I do. 
Just wait. She will be dis-gusted.” Flopsy’s eyes 
narrowed as she recalled her grievance. 

“So long—” Alice quite content gayly ran off. 
Then she turned abruptly and called: 

“Last look! ” 

“Last look!” 



Chapter Nine 


War and Peace 


T HAT night Flopsy told her mother the 
story about Fleurette. 

Mrs. Moore listened very attentively and 


quietly. 

“She is awful, isn’t she, mother?” Flopsy asked, 
as she finished her tale. 

“My dear Flopsy, I don’t like to hear you call any 
little girl—awful. But I am afraid that Fleurette is 
not just the best friend for you. She shouldn’t say 
some of the things she does. For Flopsy, remember 
this all the days of your life, never say anything about 
people’s clothes unless it is kind, unless it is some¬ 
thing they want to hear. Never hurt anyone’s feel¬ 
ings. Never care about the cost or the value of your 
friend’s clothing—never never mention the cost of 
your own—unless you are asked for some good 
reason. There are so few good reasons for asking 
prices of the belongings of one’s friends. I never 
tell you the price of your things—I never want you 
to ask. Trust me, Flopsy, I dress you as I can afford, 
and as I think a girl of twelve should be dressed. 

“And remember, you are still a girl, and not a 
very wise nor perfect one—almost any grown up 
person knows more than you. You see they have had 
more experience in going through life than you, and 
that experience is the most important and valuable 

118 



WAR AND PEACE 


119 


that we have in this world. Try always to respect 
this. 

“Fleurette probably did feel very badly because 
the end of her recitation was spoiled. I feel sorry 
for her. I should not have let Frankie go to school j 
it was my fault, not yours or hers.” 

Flopsy listened soberly and quietly. She felt a 
little ashamed of herself, too. She had dropped an 
old friend for a new one, and then had turned from 
her, too, in sudden anger. She had been a little two- 
faced, as Fleurette had called it. 

“What shall I do about Fleurette? May I talk 
to her?” Flopsy asked anxiously. 

“Why, yes, Flopsy. Don’t refuse to speak to any¬ 
one, unless you and I are sure there is some grave 
reason for not doing so. But you need not make 
Fleurette your most intimate and only friend. If 
you come to me with your problems, as you did this 
time, dear, you can’t go far wrong. 

“Besides to drop Fleurette suddenly and leave 
her alone would be a little mean, as you did rush her 
very hard at first. Perhaps you could do her some 
good. Keep telling me everything, Flopsy dear.” 

Flopsy need not have worried about the question 
of speaking to Fleurette. Fleurette solved the ques¬ 
tion next morning by refusing to speak or even look 
at Flopsy. She tossed her head in the air, and kept 
her eyes straight ahead of her. This rather irritated 
Flopsy because she intended to be very forgiving, 
and to speak gently and kindly to her. 

Fleurette was mad! Of course this made Flopsy 
mad, too. War was declared between them. It takes 
two to make a quarrel, Flopsy had often been told, 
and she thought as long as Fleurette was determined 



120 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


to be one in the quarrel, she herself would be the 
other. 

Fleurette’s way of waging war was not nice or 
kind. Of course war is never nice or kind, it does not 
pretend to be. But when two girls have a quarrel 
there are many things they should not do. Fleurette 
called names, she made fun of Flopsy’s clothes, of 
Flopsy’s work. Flopsy could be as mad as anyone, 
but she could not, would not do these things. 

The next day, on the way to school, Fleurette 
walked along on the opposite side of the street from 
Alice and Flopsy. She was with a noisy, rude girl, 
Frances Turner. Fleurette was talking at the top 
of her voice. 

“Conceited? I should say so! Imagine, she says 
her hair is pretty! She is the only one who thinks so, 
I guess.” 

Flopsy shivered, for in desperation one day, she 
had said that her hair was pretty. She didn’t think 
so at all, for she heartily hated it. 

Frances laughed in open contempt. 

“Don’t look at them,” Alice whispered. “Keep 
on talking to me.” 

From across the street came the next taunt. 

“She says she is related to the Duke of Northum¬ 
berland, George Washington slept in her brother’s 
crib! And her father is the Sultan of Turkey in 
disguise. I just can’t remember whether it is the 
Sultan of Turkey in disguise or Saint Patrick.” 

A little gathering of interested listeners were fol¬ 
lowing Fleurette, and were looking across the street 
at Flopsy and Alice. They were having a jolly time 
of it,—was that little gathering! 

Flopsy’s mouth was quivering. She was in agony 



WAR AND PEACE 


121 


of horror at what Fleurette might say next. Oh, why, 
had she told Fleurette any of her family affairs? 
She groaned at the thought of it now. 

“He isn’t the Duke of Northum— or whatever she 
called him. He’s a ‘Sir’ and he married my daddy’s 
cousin,” Flopsy confessed miserably to Alice. “And 
I never said a word about George Washington’s 
sleeping in Dickie’s crib! That’s an awful fib! 
George Washington couldn’t fit—” and Flopsy’s 
voice broke, a tear glistened on her lashes. “How 
could daddy be St. Patrick?” she wailed. 

“Don’t let her see you cry!” Alice begged in hor¬ 
ror. “That would only satisfy her too well. Keep 
on ignoring her.” 

“Cheese cloth is much better for dresses than silk. 
It is much more classy! Oh, indeed, yes!” she said, 
as if surprised at the shout of laughter that followed 
this remark. “Ask Alice Holt, she knows, her father 
is a judge of everything. He is the greatest judge in 
the world!” 

Alice looked into Flopsy’s face almost stupefied in 
her just indignation. 

“Don’t say a word! Don’t say a word!” Flopsy 
cried hotly. “It would only please her too well— 
she wants to start an argument. Keeping quiet will 
only make her madder. Hold on to your lips so you 
won’t say anything.” 

During the rest of the unpleasant walk to school 
Flopsy and Alice held on to their lips. Although they 
did it to be annoying, it was the best thing that they 
could have done. 

Fleurette found that she could not stir Alice and 
Flopsy into an open fight and she gave up trying. 
But peace had not been declared. 




122 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


That morning Flopsy was promoted to row three 
again—for the last move had put her back to row 
four. She was very proud and happy to be back in 
row three. And as usual, on the day that they had 
their seats changed, Miss Hilton gave them a few 
minutes in which to put their desks in order. 

Flopsy had worked away, trying hard to have her 
new desk in finest order. She glanced down into her 
open ink well and frowned. The ink was covered with 
particles of dust which floated like a scum over its 
surface. She leaned over and looked at it intently, 
wondering what she should do about it. Suddenly 
an idea came to her. She pursed up her lips, put 
them down over the top of the ink well and blew— 
blew for all she was worth. 

The immediate result of her blowing was a most 
bewildering surprise! She raised her head as though 
asking the world what hit her. Something had— 
right in the face. Something was making her eyes 
smart, something tasted bitter and nasty on her 
tongue. 

The class knew what hit her! With the exception 
of the whites of her eyes she looked like a big ink 
blot. Even her teeth were black. 

“Look-it! Look-it!” spluttered Walter Norman, 
pointing at Flopsy, his eyes almost popping right 
out of his head. 

The class needed no second invitation to “look-it,” 
as Flopsy faced them with smarting eyes. William 
led the class in shouts of hilarious laughter. 

Miss Hilton stared at her blankly. “Whatever did 
you do, Flora?” she gasped, coming down the aisle 
towards her. 



WAR AND PEACE 


123 


Flopsy hid her streaming face in the white sleeves 
of her middy blouse, and mingled a few tears with 
the ink. 

“Come! 5 ’ Miss Hilton gently lifted Flopsy from 
her seat. 

“Go on with your work, class, and quiet down 
this minutes.” Miss Hilton had one arm around the 
shoulders of the miserable Flopsy, while with the 
other she pushed the swinging door open, but Flopsy 
darted away from her hold and fled down the hall. 
She was going straight home. 

“Flora!” Miss Hilton called. “Wait!” 

And so Flopsy was led to that mysterious, awe¬ 
inspiring room—known as “THE TEACHERS’ 
ROOM.” 

They scrubbed and scrubbed until poor Flopsy’s 
skin felt as though it were coming right off with the 
ink. Miss Hilton was very kind and gentle, but her 
eyes would dance and her mouth would twist as 
though to stretch into a smile. Once she laughed a 
short very merry little laugh. Flopsy had never 
heard her laugh so sweetly before. 

“You can either go home or I will send someone 
to help you—” 

“I am all right, I don’t need to go home,” Flopsy 
smiled, showing her pale bluish teeth between black 
lips. 

“Very well then,” Miss Hilton nodded a pleasant 
good-bye and hurried away. 

Miss Hilton watched the friendships in her room, 
but in her confusion she had forgotten that she had 
not had to speak to Fleurette or Flopsy for whispering 
that day, so she made a very excusable mistake. 




124 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Fleurette, go to the teachers’ room and help 
Flora,” is what she said when she got back to the 
classroom. 

Flopsy was rubbing her teeth with a wash cloth 
when the door opened and Fleurette stood before 
her. 

Fleurette did a very tactless thing and made a 
bad beginning—she laughed. 

Flopsy’s eyes narrowed with sudden temper. 

“Of all the nerve!” 

“Miss Hilton sent me,” Fleurette retorted. “And 
you better not get too smart, Miss Flora Moore!” 

“Well, you won’t touch me, Fleurette Muldoon.” 
Flopsy snapped hotly. 

“I am only doing what I was told,” Fleurette 
answered, making her voice very sweet. 

Flopsy turned her back upon Fleurette in dis¬ 
gust. There was an embarrassing silence. The silence 
grew until each girl was miserably uncomfortable. 

“There is some over your right eye,” timidly 
ventured Fleurette. 

Flopsy made a savage hit at her right temple. 

“Lower,” said Fleurette. 

Flopsy went lower with her wash rag. 

“Is it off?” She turned her cross, red face full 
at her former friend. 

“Not quite.” Fleurette moved as though to help 
her. 

“Never mind. I’ll get it, there’s not such a lot of 
room over my eye—you needn’t bother to help me 
find it,” Flopsy said rudely. 

Another dead silence. 

“I know something to take off ink—” Fleurette 
broke the silence. 



WAR AND PEACE 


125 


“It’s all off!” Flopsy answered shortly. 

“But—” Fleurette hesitated. 

“Are you trying to get glad at me, Fleurette 
Muldoon, after the things you said about me?” 
Flopsy asked point blank. 

“Well, Pve as much to get mad about as you—” 
Fleurette’s voice showed no anger. 

“You!” echoed Flopsy in supreme scorn. 

“Yes, I have,” Fleurette repeated stubbornly. 
“You have ink on your tie, and it’s the prettiest tie 
I’ve ever seen.” 

Then Flopsy remembered that talk she had with 
her mother, but not until then! 

“Take it off,” suggested Fleurette. “And Til try 
and get the spot off.” 

As Fleurette went to Flopsy’s assistance the dis¬ 
missal bell sounded. 

“Oh, I say, Fleurette, we have missed the whole 
of the geography period, and I hate that stuff we 
are having now.” 

“So do I; you and I hate the same things, don’t 
we, Flopsy?” 

Flopsy had a queer feeling of guilt as she allowed 
Fleurette to help her. It rather annoyed her getting 
glad at Fleurette so soon. What would Alice think 
of her? 

“I’d have to be glad before night—for ‘never let 
the sun go down on your anger,’ ” thought Flopsy, 
consoling herself, as she and Fleurette tried to con¬ 
verse in a forced, strained fashion. 






Dottle 



Chapter Ten 

“School Is Done!” 


I ’LL never be mad again at anyone, Alice.” 
Flopsy was trying to explain her position in re¬ 
gard to Fleurette. “You see, we are all too old 
for getting mads. Only dogs get mad, anyway. Of 
course, I don’t love Fleurette but still I am not 
mad. But, of course, sometimes I’ll just have to 
argue with her—that’s different from getting—mad. 
And besides, I just got glad because my mother 
wants me to be kind. You see I am being kind to 
Fleurette, she hardly has any friends but me.” 

But Alice did not smile—she did not care to un¬ 
derstand. 

“It’s two-faced—” she began. 

“No, it’s not, Alice, honest and truly,” Flopsy 
hurried to protest earnestly. 





“SCHOOL IS DONE!” 


127 


“Two is company, and three is a crowd—that’s an 
old saying. Any one will tell you that. Besides I 
don’t like Fleurette anyway,” Alice persisted. 

“Oh, goodness, Alice, don’t be such a crank, and 
so mean and disagreeable. Just let’s see how long 
we can get along without arguing. Perhaps we 
could do Fleurette some good. We don’t have to 
have her for our best friend and if she does things 
we don’t like we will have to tell her, that’s all.” 

“And that won’t make her argue? Oh no, Oh 
no,” Alice’s lips curled scornfully. 

“Alice Holt!” Flopsy cried out of patience. “Do 
you suppose I made up this idea? Well hardly! 
It’s my mother’s. Do you think you know more 
than my mother, Alice Holt?” 

Alice did not reply. Her mouth was in a straight 
hard line. 

“Now,” Flopsy burst out, “just get the sulks and 
don’t talk, as usual! ” 

Fleurette Mudoon appeared in sight at this min¬ 
ute and was walking slowly toward them her head 
lowered. As she drew near, she raised her eyes and 
smiled as though fearful of her reception. 

“Hello!” Flopsy made a desperate effort to be 
cordial and perfectly natural. 

“Hello!” Fleurette answered eagerly. “Say, 
Flopsy, may I speak to you a minute—alone.” This 
suggestion added fuel to Alice’s fire, and she hurried 
off, her face like a thunder cloud. 

Flopsy reluctantly waited for Fleurette, and 
looked regretfully after Alice. 

“Alice doesn’t like me I know—” Fleurette re¬ 
marked casually and then she rushed on to her 
secret. “My mother said that I never had such a 



128 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


nice lady-like friend as you. She wants us to be 
friends. My mother wants me to be different. She 
says I am too bold. It’s that old school where I was 
before, they were the freshest things. I wasn’t born 
bold, I was only made so.” 

This, sounded to Flopsy like very fine sensible 
reasoning—she wanted to memorize it and repeat it 
to her mother. 

Alice was walking ahead of them her back stiff 
and straight, but suddenly she whirled about and 
came toward them, as though a new determination 
had come to her. 

“I have some news for you,” she said hardly 
glancing at either of them. 

“Nice?” ventured Flopsy. Alice’s news was sel¬ 
dom nice after one of her silences. 

“Miss Hilton is going to be promoted with us to 
the eighth grade,” she looked sideways at the two 
girls through her eye lashes. 

Blank dismay was plainly written on their faces. 

“Isn’t that—awful!” Flopsy managed to gasp. 
She was almost tongue tied with surprise and dis¬ 
appointment. 

“Oh lands,” Fleurette explained her eyes wide, 
“that’s cheerful, all right! I’ll get to high school, 
when I am an old woman, twenty-five!” 

“Who told you?” Flopsy hated to believe that 
it was true. 

“My uncle knows someone on the Board of Edu¬ 
cation. He says Miss Hilton is a fine teacher. And 
she is, too. I am rather glad, I am getting to like 
her.” Alice walked along, serenely contented, be¬ 
cause she felt that she had punished them both for 
crossing her. 



129 


“SCHOOL IS DONE!” 


“Perhaps,” she smilingly continued, “it won’t 
make any difference to you for you may not be 
promoted. You may have Miss Emerson.” 

“Thank you!” Flopsy returned, mimicking Alice’s 
tone. “But do you know what? I think I must be 
the most unlucky girl in the whole school—even in 
the whole town! Everything happens to me. Now 
just when I was hoping and hoping and working to 
get out of her class—why—j” 

“Now there is Dottie and Mary. Call them, see 
how they like it,” Fleurette interrupted, eager to 
spread the mournful news. 

“Oh, / don’t care,” laughed Dottie Green. “I 
like her.” 

“And so do I—I love her!” Mary boasted 
proudly. 

“And I am getting to love her, too,” Alice agreed 
with great warmth. 

“Well I don’t,” Fleurette frowned at the idea. 

“Neither do I!” Flopsy glanced in cold disgust 
at Alice. 

“She might get married—” Dottie tried to cheer 
Flopsy. 

“Who would marry her?” Fleurette laughed. 

“There’s William—tell him.” Flopsy felt that 
William must agree with her. She felt sure that 
he, of all people had found Miss Hilton “cranky.” 

Bill Forbes followed by three other Seven A’s 
were hailed and given the news. 

“Oh I don’t mind,” Bill said. “She’s better look¬ 
ing than old Lady Smith. I like a good looking 
teacher—she’s a regular queen! You should see 
her when she’s dressed up! Oh baby!” 

“I wish you’d marry her,” Flopsy interrupted. 





130 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


A gale of laughter greeted this daring suggestion. 

“Oh Bill, now we know who your girl friend is!” 

Bill grinned sheepishly and strutted off with his 
hands in his pockets; he looked distinctly proud of 
himself. Harry and Milton followed, leaving the 
girls to discuss the situation once more among them¬ 
selves. 

A week later Miss Hilton told them all about it 
herself. 

“Class, we are going to be together another year. 
I hope that you feel as I do that it ought to make 
us finer and better friends. 

“I am looking forward with pride and delight to 
the day when I shall see you leave me as graduates. 
I want thirty-one graduates, and so won’t you help 
me as I help you? Perhaps, who knows, you may be 
the last Eight A to graduate from School Number 
Nine—for there is a good deal being said about a 
junior high school that may be built. And if you are 
the last graduating class from this school, you and 
I want it to be the very best graduating class the 
school has ever known. 

“But I am sorry that there are four or five in this 
class who like to play more than work. They are 
all bright enough to do very good work. It is such 
a pity. I have tried to play a little with them, 
that is why I changed your seats every week—be¬ 
cause most of you thought it was exciting and lots 
of fun. I wanted to make a game out of your work 
—you had got so far, far behind last term. I didn’t 
want to make a terrible grind of your catching up 
to your grade. But the very people I wanted to 



“SCHOOL IS DONE!” 


131 


encourage—would not play the game with us. Next 
year we will not change seats. 

“I saw one girl copying fashion drawings yester¬ 
day during the geography study period. When it 
came to recitation she of course knew nothing. Is 
that hurting me—or hurting her?” 

Miss Hilton did not mention the paper that she 
picked up from Flopsy’s desk after school. Flopsy 
had carefully printed a statement—which certainly 
had taken some precious time. It was titled “Things 
that Dottie Green eats in school.” Below was listed: 

1. Strings. 

2. Paste. 

3. Rulers. 

4. Pencils. 

5. Chalk. 

6. Erasers—two kinds, ink and pencil. 

7. Paper. 

8. Finger nails. 

9. Paint brushes. 

10. Pens. 

11. Elastic bands. 

12. Buttons. 

13. -. 

Thirteen had evidently been Flopsy’s unlucky 
number, for she stumbled over the thirteenth thing 
which Dottie might have “eaten” and so this elabo¬ 
rate list had never been completed. 

No, Miss Hilton did not mention any names this 
morning. She let each child answer for herself or 
himself. 

Dottie Green glanced nervously at Alice and 
Alice looked at Flopsy. Flopsy kept her eyes on 





132 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Miss Hilton. Each one of them had been making 
fashion drawings during the geography study period 
the day before. Which one had she seen? 

“And this girl is going to have a hard time get¬ 
ting through the Seven A. But do try, class! Do 
your best—you will find that it repays you. Will 
you do your best?” 

“Yes Miss Hilton,” they promised solemnly and 
firmly. 

As soon as they, Dottie, Alice, Fleurette and 
Flopsy were out of school that afternoon they held 
council. 

“She meant me,” Flopsy stated emphatically. 
“I never do the least little thing that I don’t get 
caught.” 

“I saw her looking at Alice,” Fleurette remarked. 

“Well. I never saw her at all—that’s what makes 
me nervous,” Dottie giggled. 

“I’ll get through, I am not going to let her 
frighten me,” Alice said coolly. 

“Well, I don’t care so much if I don’t pass,” 
Fleurette boasted. 

“Well, I wouldn’t mind passing.” Flopsy hesi¬ 
tated to express her real desire. 

“I’d hate to work as hard as Mary Howard does; 
she works like a beaver, morning, noon and night,— 
and the most sickening part of it is that she always 
says, she never works. She likes people to think that 
she is naturally brilliant and knows things without 
being told. She is a wonder!” It was Flopsy who 
added this as an after thought. 

“Oh, if I studied like Mary Howard where do 
you suppose I’d be? A junior at high school!” 
Fleurette was bragging her head off. 



“SCHOOL IS DONE!” 


133 


Miss Hilton struck cold horror into four hearts 
the next afternoon. 

“Do you think that it is anything to brag about 
that you do not study? I heard of some very silly 
girls who actually boasted that they did not study 
and they did not care whether they were promoted 
or not.” 

Among her thirty-one listeners there were two 
extremely white faced girls and two who were a 
vivid red. Miss Hilton did not look into the faces 
of her class, she merely toyed with her pen and kept 
her eyes lowered. 

On the way home that afternoon there was no 
council, in fact the conversation was of everything 
but school. Four girls shared one fine idea. Study 
was something valuable, something that was always 
rewarded. They were going to study, and study 
hard! 

And so it became a new mark of distinction to 
have a headache from hours of grinding. It was 
their newest and biggest boast. 

“Oh dear, I shan’t pass, I know it!” Flopsy wailed 
one afternoon to her mother. “I wish I could go to 
another school, anyway.” 

“Flopsy, if you had studied one half as hard in 
September as you are doing now in June, you would 
have nothing to fear. Besides, what good would 
going to another school do?” 

“Well, I’d have a new teacher—it’s awfully 
monotonous having the same old teacher,” Flopsy 
answered a little fretfully. 

“But I think it is very nice indeed,—you have the 
same old mother all the time, my dear. Besides, 
think how well she knows you all.” 




134 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Flopsy wondered wherein there was any com¬ 
fort in Miss Hilton’s knowing her very well. But 
she did not say this to her mother. 

Examination week was so close at hand that it 
made the girls cold to think of it. They sat on 
front porches and asked questions of each other 
that had bothered other Seven A’s. 

“I’ll ask you an easy one, Dottie,” Alice said one 
afternoon with sweet patience. “Who was the presi¬ 
dent before Lincoln?” 

Dottie said she did not care who he was—she had 
a headache. 

Flopsy and Alice agreed that Dottie was just plain 
dumb and that Miss Hilton must have been speak¬ 
ing of her when she said: 

“This girl is going to have a hard time getting 
through the Seven A—” 

“It’s Dottie!” they decided. But the next day 
when they tried arithmetic problems, Flopsy 
thought forlornly: 

“Of course, it’s me—” 

Who was the girl? Who was the girl Miss Hil¬ 
ton had seen drawing fashion ladies, and who was 
going to have a difficult time getting through the 
Seventh A? 

How those girls worked! 

Mary Howard had become the most popular girl 
in the Seven A. She was invited first to one house 
and then to another, Mary’s opinions were asked 
on all and every subject and question. Mary en¬ 
joyed her new popularity royally. 

One day when she was having cocoa and cake at 
Flopsy’s home, she said confidentially: 

“I think it is Alice—” 



“SCHOOL IS DONE!” 


135 


The next day, when she was sharing Alice’s car¬ 
amels, she whispered: 

“Promise not to tell, but I think it is either 
Flopsy or Fleurette Muldoon who is going to be left 
back.” 

Alice was well pleased, she put her arm around 
Mary and gave her the last caramel. 

At last—the examination week. The white papers 
were passed, everyone had a new pen, a new blotter, 
—and Miss Hilton was reading the rules they knew 
so well: 

“Your name—here. The subject—here. The date 
in the upper right hand corner,” she was showing 
them on the blackboard. “Skip a line and put Roman 
numeral one, right here. 

“You are not to borrow. You have everything 
that you need—ruler, eraser, blotter, pen. Come 
to my desk if you must ask for anything.” 

The room was breathlessly still—one could have 
heard that pin drop, that people are always talking 
about. There thirty-one solemn faces turned upon 
their teacher, faces that were alert, as well, and 
prepared for anything! 

“I must pass, I must keep calm,” Flopsy breathed 
to herself. 

On the way home from school that day, Flopsy 
discovered to her dismay that she had omitted one 
question by mistake because she had not kept calm. 

Dottie had forgotten the “a” of question two! 

Alice had answered one question all wrong, simply 
because she had read it wrong. Every afternoon 
during the week the girls had a sad time relating 
and discussing their mistakes. 

“I’ll never cram for another exam for I wasn’t 



136 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


asked one solitary thing I studied.” Flopsy felt 
very injured. 

“You made a poem,—‘cram’ and ‘exam’ and that’s 
good luck—” Fleurette tried to cheer her. 

“Oh, ye-ah?” Flopsy made a face. “Just wait and 
see.” 

The last two examinations were minor ones, read¬ 
ing and writing. Their promotion was now assured 
or—this “or” was too dreadful to even think of. 

Their promotion slips were placed in their re¬ 
port card cases and were passed out the last day of 
school. They were ordered not to open them until 
they were outside the school. 

The last session of school was short and festive. 
Miss Hilton did nothing to curb their wild spirits. 
She was very gay herself, her blue eyes were danc¬ 
ing with joy. 

School is done, 

School is done, 

Now, we will have some—j oily fun, 
SCHOOL—IS—DONE! 

The boys shrieked and yelled like the wildest of 
wild Indians as they tumbled out of school into 
the lovely June day. 

No more pencils, 

No more books, 

NO—MORE—TEACHERS’—SASSY- 
LOOKS! 

Once at a safe distance the girls were howling 
lustily: 

NO MORE TEACHERS’ SASSY LOOKS! 

How they loved those last two words! 

Vacation had begun. School was over until fall. 

Miss Hilton had either been teasing them—or 






“SCHOOL IS DONE! ,} 


137 


she had made a mistake. Every one of her thirty- 
one pupils were promoted. They were Seven A’s 
no longer—but Eight B’s. 

Flopsy never asked or cared which it was—or how 
it happened, she just “whooped” it up louder than 
anyone else. 

SCHOOL IS DONE, 

SCHOOL IS DONE, 

NOW—WE WILL HAVE SOME JOLLY 

—FUN! 




Janet 

Chapter Eleven 

The T. M. S. Is Born 

HROUGH those two precious, swiftly- 



moving summer months, Flopsy received 


JL many letters from Alice and Fleurette, and 
numerous postal cards from other Seven A’s, or 
rather Eight B’s. She was away at the sea shore 
with her father and mother and her two little 
brothers. 

Alice and Fleurette had each written that Dottie 
Green’s sister had a little baby—and that made 
Dottie an aunt! They had each told her that there 
had been a big fire one Sunday evening in Charlie 
Ong’s laundry. Flopsy wrote them both about her 
swimming and that she was very red and freckled. 
She had written each of them in identical words 
about an experience that she thought was very funny. 


138 







THE T. M. S. IS BORN 


139 


It sounded much funnier in a letter than it actually 
was. When she was swimming one day she had a 
bright idea. She would use two pairs of water 
wings that some one had left on the beach, at the 
same time. One pair she was going to put under 
her arm-pits, the other under her feet. She had 
put the first pair under her feet. Imagine that ! ! ! 
(a whole row of exclamation points). Her feet had 
gone right up to the top of the water and had be¬ 
gun floating around. Her father had just happened 
to see a pair of feet swimming about, and he had 
given a yank—and had found—ME! Wasn’t that 
nutty! 

Alice’s last letter contained an interesting bit of 
news. A new girl had come to town. Her father 
had bought the Andrews house. The Andrews house 
was the show place of the town. It was a big white 
house set in expansive grounds. This new girl’s 
father had two cars, two maids, had a chauffeur. 
Alice had underlined the word “chauffeur” three 
times. Alice concluded this impressive description 
with, “from a distance she looks nearly fourteen.” 

As the time drew near for the opening of school 
Flopsy grew impatient to get home, she longed to 
see her friends—and although she never would have 
admitted it—she was eager to get back to the routine 
of school again. To be in the eighth grade promised 
many fine distinctions. And so, in a quiver of joy 
and happy anticipation, Flopsy found herself at 
last between Fleurette and Alice walking to school. 

“Oh Flopsy,” Alice burst out, “do you know— 
what? Bill Forbes wears long pants on Sundays!” 

“And do you know that Milton Brooks is always 
going up on Janet’s porch and talking to her?” 



140 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Fleurette was holding Flopsy’s arm very tightly. 
What fine friends these girls were this wonderful 
autumn day! 

“Who is Janet?” Flopsy relished this telling of 
news for it gave her a lovely sensation of having 
been away for a long, long time. 

Both girls tried answering at once. 

“She’s the new girl.” 

“She’s pretty.” 

“She’s class. And she has lots of money.” 

“Her last name is Dudley.” 

“I am crazy to know her! ” Alice said gaining con¬ 
trol of the conversation. “I am going to love her, 
she is sweet and a perfect lady. She never could 
say anything fresh I am sure—” Alice glanced 
sideways at Fleurette. Fleurette did not catch her 
look. “And she is exactly the kind of a girl my 
mother wants me to have for a friend. My mother 
is very careful of me.” 

Dottie, Mary and Laura came running toward 
them at this point, and the new Janet was for a 
moment forgotten in the reunion of old friends. 

“I saw Miss Hilton and she looked lovely,” 
Laura cried joyfully. “She’s just as sweet—as—” 

“Oh ye-ah?” Flopsy’s tone was cold. 

“There is Janet!” every one stopped talking and 
watched the approach of the much heralded Janet. 

Janet Dudley felt that she was being watched 
by the curious and her face was a rosy pink, her 
eyes were lowered modestly. Mary Howard knew 
her best and so she proudly and eagerly ran forward 
and brought her back in triumph to the others. 

Janet Dudley and Miss Hilton were the only 
topics of conversation that first week of school. 



THE T. M. S. IS BORN 


141 


Miss Hilton during those last weeks of school had 
looked very tired and white. Now she was a beau¬ 
tiful rich tan, her cheeks were glowing with a 
healthy red. Her eyes were a vivid blue in lovely 
contrast to the tan of her face. She wore such pretty 
becoming dresses. She told them about her trip 
across the country in a big bus. She had gone all 
the way back to Rawhide and had lived on the 
ranch all summer. And, they were all thrilled again 
to hear her tell about cowboys and rodeos. Then 
for the first time she mentioned her sister who was 
about their age. Babbie was not strong and had never 
been able to go to school. She had fallen from a 
horse when she was only six years old. 

“And, oh, how she envies you boys and girls be¬ 
cause you can go to school every day.” Miss Hilton 
said this with such a funny knowing smile that her 
class laughed right out in pure delight. It was 
funny, anyone’s longing and longing to go to school. 
But they were not laughing at Miss Hilton’s sister 
who could not go to school—they were sorry for 
her. There was not one boy or girl that first week 
of school who did not admire and like their teacher. 

Yes, Miss Hilton and Janet Dudley were on 
everyone’s tongue those first weeks of school. Janet 
was a very surprising girl. She was always the same, 
sweet, cool and even tempered. She never got ex¬ 
cited and was never cross. 

Flopsy talked incessantly at home of Janet and 
Miss Hilton’s changed manner. 

“Don’t you want me to go to school for some¬ 
thing? Think of something or other—a good ex¬ 
cuse. I might tell your teacher that I can help you 
in your arithmetic, and that my way of doing prob- 




142 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


lems is not old-fashioned. You never would let me 
help you last year. I must have some sort of an 
excuse to meet this very beautiful teacher,” Mr. 
Moore teased. 

a Oh, daddy!” Flopsy frowned. 

“And bring that lovely Janet here some day, for 
I don’t believe I have ever seen anything so perfect 
in my life as your description.” 

“Oh daddy!” Flopsy felt that her father rather 
doubted her precious Janet’s real charms. 

“She will come here sometime,” promised Flopsy 
as an after thought. 

“Dear me, that is something to live for—but 
when?” Mr. Moore asked anxiously. 

“Well,” Flopsy looked down at her fingers, 
“some Tuesday afternoon in about—” Flopsy was 
evidently counting. 

“Oh I see,” Mr. Moore sighed in a resigned 
fashion, “she has her days crowded with engage¬ 
ments. That is very very sweet of her to promise 
you one of her Tuesdays so far ahead. Tuesdays are 
evidently her visiting days. I have been watching 
you intently—you have counted five Tuesdays. I 
shall make it a point to stay home from business that 
day—count on me.” 

“Oh daddy!” Flopsy protested. “That’s not it! 
Our club meets here that day.” 

Then Mrs. Moore interrupted. 

“I can’t see for the life of me how it happens 
that you have your day so far away, usually the 
first and last meetings of your clubs are right here in 
this house!” 

“But this club is different, we are going to have 
pins and everything!” Flopsy hastened to explain. 



THE T. M. S. IS BORN 


143 


“They may need weapons, but why anything so 
treacherous as pins?” Mr. Moore looked seriously 
concerned. 

“Oh daddy—” Flopsy began as usual, for her 
father never seemed to understand her. 

“Who is in your club?” Mrs. Moore was curious. 

Flopsy’s face clouded and she answered slowly: 
“Janet, Alice, Dottie and maybe Mary. It’s either 
Fleurette or Mary. I want Fleurette but Alice says 
that Fleurette is rude—and common. But, honestly, 
mother, she is much nicer than she was, anyway, she 
is full of life and Mary is a stick in the mud. Be¬ 
sides, it’s downright mean and contemptible to drop 
Fleurette. She’ll be out in the cold, for she has been 
with us all the time. Mary goes mostly with Laura 
Cooper. I won’t have Fleurette dropped!” Flopsy 
cried hotly. 

“It would be mean and contemptible, but I sup¬ 
pose there is something in your constitution against 
having—six?” Mr. Moore asked. 

“No, I never thought of that,” Flopsy was think¬ 
ing hard. “Now well, we planned on five—and it 
was Alice—who thought of—five. I see it all, now.” 

Flopsy carried her point, the new club had six 
members. After deciding upon the membership, 
the next problem was a name and colors. Janet 
asked them to her home to decide these important 
questions. Her mother was at her card club and the 
girls had the house to themselves. 

“Of course,” began Flopsy, “the name is a secret, 
we will just tell the initials, nothing more.” 

“I know a good name—” Janet hesitated. “The 
—well—maybe—we could be the T. M. S.” 

“That is lovely!” Alice beamed her approval. 




144 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“What does it mean?” Fleurette asked eagerly, 
for already she felt the thrill of secrecy. 

“Guess! ” 

“The—the—” Flopsy floundered. “The—what 
does ‘M’ stand for? ‘S’ stands, of course for So¬ 
ciety.’ ” 

“You have only one letter right!” Janet smiled, 
well pleased with Flopsy’s failure. “The ‘T’ is right, 
but not the ‘S.’ ” 

“Tell us, Janet, we couldn’t possibly guess,” 
Alice coaxed. 

“The Merry Six,” she disclosed proudly. 

“Fine—adorable! Cute! Precious!” came the 

approving chorus. 

“ ‘The Merry Six’—that sounds exactly like a girl’s 
club. I’ve heard of clubs with a name like that be¬ 
fore.” Flopsy was well pleased. 

“I know a club with exactly the same name, only 
it had ten members—.” Fleurette was disgusted 
with the girls’ unanimous approval of everything 
Janet said or did. 

“ ‘T. M. T.’ sounds crazy! Just—T empty. It 
is not cute like T. M. S.,” Alice snapped. 

Then they voted for colors. This proceeding 
nearly ended the life of the new T. M. S. 

Each one of the six girls wrote a color combi¬ 
nation upon a sleep of paper. Here is the way the 
vote stood: 

1— Gray and pink 

2— Red, white and blue 

3— Black and blue 

A —Light blue and white 

5— Red and white 

6— Cerise and white 




THE T. M. S. IS BORN 


145 


For one half hour a battle waged—they made 
little headway. 

“Red and white, and cerise and white are the 
same—that’s two votes for red and white,” Flopsy 
argued. 

“Cerise is not the same as red,” contradicted 
Janet, sweetly entering into the conversation for 
the first time. “Cerise is more uncommon.” 

“Did you vote for cerise?” Alice asked eagerly, 
very much impressed by the word uncommon. 

“Yes,” confessed Janet modestly. 

“I want that too.” Mary Howard instantly re¬ 
nounced her gray and pink. 

“Oh, of course, so do I,” Alice hastened to add. 

“I change to red and white, instead of ‘red, white 
and blue.’ ” Fleurette nudged Flopsy significantly. 

“What are you going to do?” Flopsy turned upon 
Dottie. 

“I don’t care.” Poor Dottie really did not care, 
her wits were muddled up with their arguing. 

“Well, you have got to choose!” Flopsy com¬ 
manded. “You must have voted for light blue and 
white. Blue isn’t a merry color—it’s a sad one. 
Didn’t you ever hear of the ‘blues’? Light blue is 
babyish. Choose!” 

“She doesn’t have to choose; we win, three to two, 
because Dottie doesn’t count,” Alice quickly figured. 

“Make it a tie, Dottie,” coaxed Flopsy. 

“Don’t,” Mary cried shrilly. “I’ll resign if our 
colors are red and white.” 

“That would be too, too bad. And a ‘tie’ doesn’t 
elect, Miss Brilliant. It just means that we will 
have to start all over again,” Flopsy remarked with 
fine scorn. 



146 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Dottie persisted in saying that she didn’t care—but 
she hated red and she didn’t know what cerise was. 
The settlement of this snarl was postponed until the 
next meeting, for Flopsy refused to consider cerise 
and white chosen. 

“Now let’s vote for officers.” Alice’s heart was 
thumping hard, for she felt this was the most thrill¬ 
ing part of the whole club existence. 

The vote stood: 3 for Janet $ 2 for Flopsy $ 1 for 
Alice. 

“Janet—president; Flopsy, vice; and I am treas¬ 
urer,” Alice arranged. No one disputed her settle¬ 
ment. But Fleurette was angry, because plainly, 
Flopsy had voted for Alice! And she had voted for 
Flopsy! 

“Just wait,” she thought. “She’ll be sorry for 
voting for Alice Holt!” 

Then, the most startling, dazzling, wonderful 
thing of all was planned—the secret language. It 
was rather too complicated to talk, but it was easily 
written. Here it is—the words spelled backwards, 
and then “gree” added. No one’s tongue could 
have managed it, but it would look fine on paper! 

“Now, when the T. M. S. write letters in school 
—no one can read them.” Flopsy was looking for¬ 
ward with joy to this experiment. 

The T. M. S. disbanded that afternoon, with 
none too good feeling. Fleurette had her grievance, 
Dottie felt that they had all taken turns bossing 
her. Flopsy was decided in her opinion that red 
and white should fly over the T. M. S. She had 
never in her life had anything to do with red, but 
she felt it was a merry color! 



THE T. M. S. IS BORN 


147 


“Well,” began Flopsy’s father that evening, 
“tell us about it.” 

“Our name is—a secret. I can’t tell you any¬ 
thing but T. M. S.,” she proudly boasted of their 
secrecy. 

“Dear me,” Mr. Moore laughed, “that’s easy— 
guessed it, first shot out of the basket.” 

“Oh, you didn’t!” Flopsy’s face fell with dis¬ 
appointment. 

“Of course, what could it be, but ‘Too Many 
Spats’. ” 

“No,” Flopsy frowned her disapproval. 

“And I’ll bet the beautiful Janet is President and 
Lord High Executioner.” 

“Yes, she is,” Flopsy answered quietly. Flopsy 
liked to lead herself, and she almost wished that 
it were not considered disgraceful to vote for one¬ 
self—she had been tempted to do so, but had quickly 
written “Alice.” 

“How’s the lovely teacher?” Mr. Moore con¬ 
tinued. 

“She’s getting crankier and homelier,” Flopsy 
answered indifferently, her mind busy with other 
things. 



Chapter Twelve 

The Secret Language 

F LOPSY intended to waste no time in trying 
out the fascinating and mysterious new lan¬ 
guage. She went to school the next morning 
with no thought but that in her head. 

She forgot that she had noticed that Miss Hilton 
smiled less often lately, her voice was no longer 
light and gay. And Flopsy had forgotten that she 
had planned to work hard the whole term long, 
so those last weeks might not be a strain again. And 
so, Flopsy shirked as she had the year before! 

The T. M. S. language held more charm and in¬ 
terest for her this morning than English. At her 
first opportunity, she carefully, slowly penned this 
strange appearing message. 

“Wohgree odgree uoygree ekilgree ssimgree 
snotlihgree ezuolbgree?” 

It had taken her some time to accomplish this 
feat, for it had to be written front-ways first. She 
surveyed her work with great pride. No one but 
one of the privileged T. M. S. would ever be able 
to decipher this note. 

Then she folded it, and cautiously tired to get 
Dottie’s attention, but Dottie had no desire what¬ 
soever to hear from Flopsy, for Miss Hilton was 
in one of her sternest moods. Flopsy silently branded 
Dottie as a coward, and looked about for the nearest 

148 


THE SECRET LANGUAGE 


149 


T. M. S. Alice was nearer than any of the others, 
but the distance was a little too far for real comfort 
and safety. But Flopsy was in a daring humor, and 
she was determined that someone should receive her 
mysterious message, regardless of the consequences. 

Flopsy leaned forward and gave Harold Brown¬ 
ley a poke with her ruler. As he stealthily turned 
his head in response, Flopsy motioned to him to 
nudge Alice. Although Harold, too, had noticed 
Miss Hilton’s sternness, he was a little braver than 
Dottie, and he learned forward with his ruler and 
pushed it into Alice’s neck. With a movement of his 
left eye, eyebrow and the corner of his mouth, he 
quite plainly indicated to Alice that some one at his 
left wanted her attention. Alice and Flopsy ex¬ 
changed a quick knowing look. Both girls turned 
to see what Miss Hilton was doing. She had her 
back to them and was writing on the board. Alice 
signaled Flopsy to send her note along at once. But 
just as she caught it, Miss Hilton turned her head 
and glanced in Alice’s direction. Alice sat very still, 
the note trembling between two finger tips, and her 
face a flaming red. Flopsy turned and gazed in¬ 
nocently out of the windows. Miss Hilton went on 
with her writing on the board. 

Swiftly Alice opened the note and laid it over 
her history page. Eagerly she began to decipher 
her queer looking message. 

“How—do—you—like—Miss Hilton’s—blouze.” 

“Blouze! ” she thought contemptuously. “Our lan¬ 
guage will be too hard, if it is spelled wrong and 
backwards too! Flopsy’s an awful speller.” 

She wrote her answer with even more pride than 
Flopsy had her note. It was short: 




150 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Tigree sigree agree nisgree.” 

Under it she scrawled in plain English— 

“You spelled ‘blouse 5 wrong, don’t spell wrong, 
it isn’t fair.” 

In a trice the paper was in Flopsy’s hand, she 
frowned and puzzled over the message—it did not 
seem to make sense. Here it was— 

“It is a sin.” 

What was—a sin? Her writing the note? Her 
spelling wrong? 

She raised the note up and held one finger over 
the word “sin.” 

“What is?” 

But Alice never had an opportunity to answer. 
Miss Hilton was looking straight at Flopsy with 
her uplifted note. 

“Flora!” her voice startled them, with its sharp¬ 
ness. “Bring that here.” 

Reluctantly and shamed-faced Flopsy obeyed 
the command. 

“Now what is that?” Miss Hilton asked sternly. 

“A note,” Flopsy hung her head. 

“Who sent this to Flora?” she questioned the 
class. No one answered. 

“Who sent this note?” she repeated. 

“I—now—Alice gave it to me and I gave it to 
Flora,” Harold Brownley confessed. 

“Alice, stand!” and Alice stood. Her lips were 
trembling and her face was white. “I knew it was 
you Alice, because I saw Flora trying to talk to 
you. I will put this note in the basket but I want 
to talk with you two girls after school.” 

Miss Hilton said no more to them but went on 
with her work. 



THE SECRET LANGUAGE 


151 


Flopsy walked up to Alice at noontime and de¬ 
manded, “What is a sin?” 

“You are ignorant, that’s all! That’s the way 
all college girls talk, everything is a £ sin’—colors, 
clothes and everything. Last night Mildred said 
that her roommate’s hat was an ‘awful sin.’ I’d have 
thought you would have had sense enough to guess 
it, especially as I was just answering your question. 
But you have to make those crazy faces and get 
caught—” Alice was irritable and she mimicked 
Flopsy’s expression when she had asked— 

“What is?” 

“And,” continued Alice, “you can get anyone in 
trouble, Flopsy Moore.” 

“I am glad you didn’t send me that note.” Dottie 
was overjoyed at her escape. 

“Alice never, never owns up!” Fleurette com¬ 
mented. “Aren’t you glad you voted for her yester¬ 
day?” She taunted this last in Flopsy’s ear. 

Flopsy walked home silently beside the others. 
She was ashamed of herself and very much worried, 
as well. This was the first time that she had had 
to stay after school this term, and she realized that 
her work had been far from good these last few 
days. 

That afternoon Miss Hilton had a long earnest 
talk with the two girls. Flopsy felt her heart warm¬ 
ing in spite of herself towards Miss Hilton. She 
had always thought that she did not like her, but 
Miss Hilton was talking so kindly, so patiently to 
them, when they really felt that they deserved a 
scolding. Flopsy felt a big lump in her throat. She 
could not speak—but only nod, when Miss Hilton 
asked her a question. Miss Hilton did not demand 



152 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


that she answer—she seemed to understand per¬ 
fectly that Flopsy could not have spoken without 
choking. 

Flopsy noticed that Miss Hilton’s eyes had dark 
circles around them, and that her face had lost 
some of its fine color. 

Some new thoughts came to Flopsy during this 
conversation, thoughts that were to come back to her, 
and make her a very miserable, unhappy girl. 

“She was nice, wasn’t she?” Flopsy asked of Alice 
on the way home that afternoon. 

“I’ve always liked her, Flopsy,” Alice was much 
subdued. 

“I think the language part of the T. M. S. is too 
much trouble,” Flopsy reflected as though to her¬ 
self. 

“It’s trouble, all right all right!” and the two 
girls laughed merrily at Alice’s little joke. 

The next meeting of the club was at Dottie’s. It 
was to be a very important one. Two things had 
to be decided upon, one was the left over question of 
colors—the other was the possibility of a party. 

Dottie’s sister, who was only in the fourth grade, 
refused to move from the dining room. The dining 
room and the living room were merely separated 
by portieres, and of course they were no protection to 
secret undertakings! 

“Now, how can we be secret, with Margaret 
sticking around?” Fleurette asked rudely. 

“Send her out, before we begin—make her go,” 
Flopsy ordered. 

“Yes, Dottie, make her go.” Mary pushed Dottie 
towards sister. 

“Margaret, go right upstairs, or go right out 



THE SECRET LANGUAGE 


153 


doors, or I’ll tell mother when she comes in!” Dot- 
tie commanded. 

Margaret wriggled in her chair but otherwise did 
not move. 

“Pull her!” suggested Alice. 

Dottie grabbed her sister’s arm, but Margaret 
gave her a sharp kick in the shins; whereupon Dottie 
sat down and cried. 

“You mean—mean—” she sputtered between 
sobs. 

“Poor, poor Dottie,” was the first thing the presi¬ 
dent said, as she put her arms about Dottie’s heaving 
shoulders. 

The T. M. S. in a body concentrated a long quiv¬ 
ering look of scorn and contempt upon the stubborn 
Margaret. She slowly and reluctantly got up from 
her chair. Then she made a dart for the door. It 
was too embarrassing to stand for long—the stern 
gaze of five girls and the noisy sobs of her miserable 
sister. She hated to give into them but at the same 
time she was almost happy to make her departure. 

Then the meeting began. 

Mary had planned with Alice an argument to 
settle Flopsy forever on the subject of their colors. 

“Well, sometimes we might want to wear our 
colors for hair ribbons, say, at our party, for instance,” 
Mary burst out eagerly. 

“And,” there was a dramatic pause as Alice glared 
at Flopsy’s hair, “how would your colors look on 
your hair, Flopsy Moore? Just imagine your wear¬ 
ing red! We are thinking of you, it’s for your 
sake—” 

Flopsy flushed painfully. The colors of the 
T. M. S. were cerise and white. 




154 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Flopsy didn’t say that cerise and white were 
little better for her than red and white 5—if any¬ 
thing they were worse. She hated, shunned remarks 
about her hair, so she abruptly changed the con¬ 
versation to the party. Should they have a party? 

“Shall we have boys?” Janet asked timidly. 

“Well, of course—not!” Flopsy stated emphati¬ 
cally. “Just imagine! Why Janet, you don’t like 
boys do you?” 

Janet looked appealingly at the others, but did 
not answer. 

“The boys like Janet,” Alice smiled approvingly 
upon Janet’s troubled face. “Milton Brooks looks at 
her all the time!” 

Janet blushed prettily and shook her head. 

“And so does Harry Young, and he is a sopho¬ 
more at high school!” 

This information of Mary’s silenced them into a 
stare of admiration and surprise. A sophomore at 
high school—looking at an Eight B! 

“And Mary likes Frank Gordon,” Alice said 
with a mean look about her mouth—for you see she 
did not say a word about whom Frank liked. She 
thought she knew whom he liked, but she was not 
boasting! 

“Yes, let’s have boys, of course,” Fleurette was 
on the same side of the fence with Alice for the first 
time since the two girls had known each other. 

Flopsy was remaining coldly, disapprovingly 
silent, her lips shut tight together. Dottie remained 
to be heard from—. 

“They are so—rough—” she faltered nervously, 
“and at parties sometimes they get—rougher.” 

“You are all ‘hoy crazy’, that’s the truth!” Flopsy 




THE SECRET LANGUAGE 


155 


burst into a storm. “Do you know what boys do at 
parties? I do! They fire cakes and candies at each 
other, and try to make sandwiches swim around in 
the lemonade. They break legs off chairs—and—” 
here Flopsy almost spit forth fire, “they play crazy 
kissing games—” 

Up until this last statement, Flopsy held them 
spellbound by her manner, but at the mention of 
“kissing games” the tension was relieved and they 
all giggled. 

Flopsy was furious, and then continued to tell 
them all she knew of parties. 

“Do you know what? Well, at Vivian Mark’s 
party, they took a silver tray and made it spin on 
the carving fork, and it put a hole clear through! 
And it was your lovely, sweet Milton Brooks, Janet! ” 
Janet’s hazel eyes fell at Flopsy’s stern gaze. 

“And was that—all? Wallace Burns put blue ink 
in his expensive ice cream—it was in forms and 
everything! Isn’t that awful? 

“But that isn’t all! Oh, no! They played ‘post 
office,’ without any door-keeper—so that meant 
they just kissed all the time. Isn’t that sickening? 
But was that all? No! 

“That fresh, rough old Bill Forbes chased me 
all over the house, and I kicked him good and hard! ” 
Flopsy turned dramatically to Janet. “I guess you 
are too lady-like to do that, of course. Well, Bill 
grabbed my brand new sash off and tied it around 
his neck for a necktie—and he never gave it hack . 
Was that smart? Was it funny? Well, NO! Have 
boys, but I won’t come!” Flopsy folded her arms 
indicating that she washed her hands of the whole 
affair. 



1 56 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


There was queer strained silence. 

The girls sat still and reflected soberly. Flopsy’s 
picture was very vivid, and just whose mother would 
offer the use of her house for such goings on? 

“I vote for boys—” Alice persisted boldly, “Janet, 
Mary, Fleurette and I—” 

“Well, Alice, I want them, but our house is too 
small—it’s plenty big enough for our family, but 
not for a—party.” Fleurette made it quite clear 
that her house was big enough for her family. 

“And now I—” Mary Howard hesitated, “well 
Janet you have it.” 

“Well—a—now—” was all Janet said. 

“I can have the graduating party my mother says; 
then it will be different, with Miss Hilton and Mr. 
Morris there,” Flopsy broke in delighted at the 
opportunity of displaying her generosity under the 
right circumstances. 

At this point in their discussion, Mrs. Green came 
into the room. 

“You girls ought to be studying—or out of doors, 
either would do you more good than this—” but 
she smiled kindly as she said it. “Now, Dottie dear, 
an accident happened, and I am very sorry. Mar¬ 
garet and Doris have eaten up—” she was inter¬ 
rupted by Dottie’s squeal of anger. 

Dottie denounced Margaret in the firmest and 
most forcible language that the girls had ever heard 
her use. Mrs. Green tried gently to calm her right¬ 
eously indignant daughter. 

“The next time, girls—” Mrs. Green promised 
them. 

As they got their hats and coats on, Dottie con¬ 
tinued to discuss her grievance. 



THE SECRET LANGUAGE 


157 


Not one of her friends tried to soothe her—not one 
said— 

“That’s all right, Dottie, don’t worry!” 

They agreed most thoroughly with her, and did 
not hesitate to say so! 

And on the way home, they discussed what they 
would do with a young sister under the same cir¬ 
cumstances. They simply would not stand for it, that 
was all! 



Chapter Thirteen 

Flossy Takes a Tumble 

T HE next meeting of the T. M. S. was at 
Alice’s—and Flopsy arrived late—and tired. 
Her mother had found that she had no eggs 
in the middle of a cake she was making—and had 
sent her flying to the grocer’s. The girls were en¬ 
grossed in some very serious undertaking, and they 
barely noticed Flopsy’s entrance. 

“From one to eight, who are you going to marry?” 
Alice asked of Fleurette very solemnly as she held 
against her chest in a guarded fashion, a piece of 
paper. 

Fleurette hesitated,—looked intently at the 
paper, as though to read right through to the other 
side. It was an important decision she had to make. 
“Five,” she faltered. 

Alice carefully peered into the paper holding it so 
that no one could see what was on it. Her eyes lit up 
with joy—she laughed gaily—and then leaped about 
waving the paper high over her head. 

“Poor Fleurette! Oh, Fleur-ette! I’ll never 
visit you in your old shack by the railroad. Poor— 
poor—poor Fleurette!” Alice was almost singing 
in her keen enjoyment. 

“Well—who is it? You’ve broken the news to 
me very sweetly just as I’d guess you would! ” Fleur¬ 
ette said crossly. 


158 



FLOPSY TAKES A TUMBLE 159 


“Tommy Huggins!” Alice shrieked in delight. 

The others, even Flopsy, who hardly knew what 
it was all about, laughed wildly. Tommy Huggins! 
Poor dirty—unkempt—tough, gawky Tommy. 

Fleurette tried to laugh—to show that she didn’t 
care but her expression showed all too plainly that 
she was very much annoyed. She hated to have 
Alice have a joke on her. 

“From one to twelve, what kind of a dress are 
you going to wear at your wedding?” Alice con¬ 
tinued, standing before Fleurette—eager for some 
more fun. 

“Three,” Fleurette answered shortly, and a little 
sulkily. 

“Mosquito netting veil, and a gingham dress—” 
Alice burst out joyfully. 

As the others laughed, Fleurette’s eyes narrowed 
suddenly—something in her expression stopped 
Alice’s laughter. 

“You are doing it on purpose—Alice Holt—I’d 
like to see that paper—because I am sure that Janet 
said ‘three’ too, and you told her white velvet em¬ 
broidered in pearls with a veil of beautiful duchess 
lace. And it’s mighty funny that Janet was going 
to marry Milton and travel all over the world for 
three years in a private yacht on a honey-moon.” 
Fleurette rushed on in a torrent of indignation, “And, 
poor Dottie, you only had her go to Coney Island 
for her honey-moon, I suppose if I answered you 
again, you’d say I was going to take a trolley ride 
to a zoo.” 

Alice’s face was red—her eyes dark with tem¬ 
per. 

“Fleurette Muldoon, you are the worst sport! 




160 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


That’s how you always are—always grumbling and 
complaining everybody is cheating, even Flopsy, and 
you pretend to like her so much.” 

The rest of the afternoon, the girls squabbled 
and argued. Flopsy hardly knew what it was all 
about. She was glad when they all said good-bye. 

“What are you doing, Flopsy? You have used up 
six sheets of my best writing paper. That’s a shame! 
I have asked you over and over if you will use my 
paper, to practice and plan what you are going to 
write on cheap paper and then copy it,” Mrs. Moore 
said, a few weeks later. 

Flopsy twisted irritably in her chair and answered 
shortly. 

“I am resigning.” 

“From what?” 

“My club—” Flopsy’s pen scratched away furi¬ 
ously. 

“What for?” Mrs. Moore had a faint smile about 
her lips. 

“Well—” began Flopsy with a bored air. She 
would have preferred to continue resigning than 
to discuss her reasons for the step. 

“You know Alice. Well she’s crazy-insane about 
Janet. Of course Janet is not the least bit crazy about 
Alice, but anyway they pair off together all the 
time. They are always whispering secrets and they 
stop just as soon as anyone comes near them. When 
I am walking with them they either don’t talk at all, 
or they talk about the weather. Is that lady-like? 
Alice thinks that she knows everything about being 
a lady. Fleurette says that they say mean things 
about her. They gossip about her! That’s down- 



FLOPSY TAKES A TUMBLE 161 


right mean and contemptible to have people in a 
club do that! 

“I think—” Flopsy drew a long breath before 
she could go on, “I think—they talk about—boys! 
The last meeting they invented the idea about play¬ 
ing a dopey game called Consequences. 5 Then they 
wrote their names with boys and scratched off the 
letters that were the same, and said ‘Love, hate, 
friendship, marriage. 5 Isn 5 t that nutty? Janet 
cheated with hers so that it came out that she married 
Milton. They made us play consequences, until 
Janet got one with Milton—and Alice was mad be¬ 
cause she only got one with Bill Forbes, Fleurette 
had one with Frank Gordon. It made me laugh 
because Alice was trying to fix him for herself! 
Frank and Fleurette were going to be married and 
live happy ever after. You should have seen Alice’s 
face! 

“If that wasn’t sickening enough—but they came 
out of the house reading their papers and tried hard 
to laugh and giggle. Just then along came Milton 
and Bill (the girls saw them first, of course! ). Alice 
just yells and makes an awful fuss. They pretend to 
hide their papers so the boys couldn’t see,—but they 
made such a racket about it that the boys, of course, 
caught on and chased after them to get the papers 
away. It was sickening!” Flopsy emphasized this 
phrase in great disgust. 

“Have you any other reasons for resigning?” Mrs. 
Moore asked. 

“Hundreds, in fact it’s hardly a club any more, 
everyone is pairing off. Mary forgot last time that 
the meeting was at her house, so we couldn’t have it. 
I don’t believe that she forgot at all, for her mother 




162 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


is just a crank and never likes her to have any fun at 
all. 55 

“Why—Flopsy!” Mrs. Moore reproved. 

“Oh, yes, she is—just a crank,” and Flopsy picked 
up her pen to continue her writing. 

“Mother, I must spell right or Alice will have a 
lovely time making fun of me. How do you spell 
contemptible?” 

Mrs. Moore’s eyes twinkled with amusement as 
she slowly spelled out Flopsy’s favorite word. 

Flopsy finished with a flourish as she signed, 
“Flora M. Moore.” She folded her seventh attempt 
and placed it in an envelope. 

“Fleurette is also resigning!” Flopsy remarked 
casually as she addressed the envelope to Miss Janet 
Dudley. 

“This club lasted longer than your others, Flopsy 
—two months and a half. Your pin lasted only ten 
days, for you will send them to the laundry on your 
middies,—and a wringer is too hard on any pin, even 
an expensive one. You are not going to quarrel with 
all your friends, are you?” Mrs. Moore added 
anxiously. 

“Oh—no! I don’t get mad any more, mother! 
It’s too babyish! I am growing up! ” Flopsy answered 
soberly. 

“Yes, you are, Flopsy,” and Mrs. Moore sighed 
as she looked at her lengthening daughter. 

Mrs. Moore stood over Flopsy and tenderly 
brushed back some wayward curls from her fore¬ 
head—“kiss-me-quicks”—Mr. Moore called them. 

“What lovely, lovely hair,” she said softly. 

The warm color rushed into Flopsy’s face and her 
mouth quivered. 



FLOPSY TAKES A TUMBLE 163 


“No one says that but you/ 5 she faltered, with 
lowered eyes. 

“Oh, don’t they? Well, sometime you will hear 
it all the time, Flopsy! For you see, big people who 
know that it is pretty, are afraid to tell you so, be¬ 
cause they fear making you vain. Your mother is 
telling you the truth now, especially as it will make 
you happy and relieve an unnecessary and foolish 
worry, my dear! That’s what mothers are for, just 
old comforts—” 

Flopsy choked back a funny little sob and ran 
from the room. She didn’t want even her mother to 
see just foolish tears. Yes, Flopsy was growing up. 

And so after nearly three months the T. M. S. 
came to an end. It died with the first cold wintry 
weather—the girls preferred to be out on the hill 
sleigh riding, or on the ice in the afternoon, than 
staying cooped up in anyone’s house. There was no 
bad feeling, they just drifted apart for awhile. 
Flopsy’s note of resignation was mailed on the buffet 
and was eventually delivered into the fire. Mrs. 
Moore lost seven sheets of her best writing paper so 
that Flopsy might unburden herself of some temper. 

Flopsy was somewhat justified in her resentment 
at Alice and Janet, for the two girls took no pains to 
hide their decided preference for each other’s com¬ 
pany. Flopsy’s interest and theirs at present were 
widely different, and she was a stumbling block in 
their way. 

One afternoon, a few weeks after Flopsy had re¬ 
signed from the T. M. S., she threw her skates over 
her shoulder and marched off to the reservoir. 
Everyone for miles around went to the old reservoir 



164 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


to skate. It was long since that it had been used as 
a reservoir, for all but two feet of water had been 
drained from it. Its sides were very steep, almost 
perpendicular, and many of the ancient bricks were 
loose and jagged. Now they were covered, more or 
less, by ice and snow. The descent to the skating rink 
was very slippery and uncertain. It could not be 
made except with caution. 

Flopsy stood for a while on its brink, looking 
down at the skaters. She was disappointed to find 
that none of her friends were about—there was no 
one but boys skating. Bill Forbes and Milton Brooks 
were standing still on their skates watching her. 
They recognized her dark green ski suit—and her 
red curls under her knitted cap. 

Flopsy crouched down, and carefully half crawled, 
half slid down the embankment, clutching pieces of 
brush that stuck through the ice. 

“Well, of all the nerves! Why are they watching 
me? I bet they hope I fall—that would be just a 
swell treat for them.” 

She had put her skates about her neck so that she 
could use both hands. Suddenly, she stumbled, and 
her skates slid from her neck and bounced bumpety, 
bump ahead of her, and crashed at the bottom. 
Flopsy frantically clutched at the piece of brush 
nearest her with one hand, and with the other an 
icy brick. She glowered darkly at the two boys. 

“How shall I get down with those two fresh things 
watching me, and hoping I’ll fall?” 

Her question was answered more promptly than 
most questions that people ask of themselves in this 
world. The loose and wobbly brick gave way and 
Flopsy began a race with it to see which one of them 



FLOPSY TAKES A TUMBLE 165 


could reach the bottom first. Flopsy won. The brick 
got wedged in a few twigs. Just before she reached 
her goal, there came a ghastly sound to her ears— 
a ripping and a tearing. The immediate icy sensation 



Flopsy won! 


that followed this sound was even more ghastly. 
She knew that she could not have much—if any— 
seat left in her ski suit. Her legs waved about for a 
minute in the air—and she landed upside down on 
the ice at the bottom of the incline. 

Bill Forbes, with a whoop, dashed to her side and 
tried to pick her up. 



























166 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Let me alone,” she wailed, trying to straighten 
herself out. 

“Are you hurt?” Bill asked, decently concerned. 

“Of course not, I am made of rubber—I bounce!” 
Flopsy sat still and held one ankle. 

“Here are your skates,” Milton offered, his face 
very red. He looked as though he would have 
relished a good laugh, but he felt it was out of 
place. 

“Here, you can sit on my sweater,” Bill ventured, 
as he held out his sweater. 

“No, thank you.” Flopsy sat rigidly still. She 
was afraid to move a muscle for fear some of many 
broken bones would stick out through her skin. She 
wondered if she would ever walk again. 

It was the very cussedness of fate, Flopsy thought, 
that Bill and Milton should take this moment to be 
polite for the first time in history. If they would 
only leave her alone— 

“Do you think that you busted anything?” Bill 
smiled. Flopsy felt that it was a knowing smile. 

“He’s not being polite. He knows I busted out 
the seat of my suit, isn’t he terrible and fresh! ” This 
horrible realization came to her sharply—she had 
forgotten it for a few seconds, wondering about her 
broken bones. She simply could not stand up. Her 
suit was dark green, but—! She had a pair of tan 
flannel shorts under it. Probably they were sticking 
out. She could imagine the lovely shouts of ridicule 
that would follow her when she got up. Bill had such 
a dopey idea of what was funny. Flopsy groaned 
loudly. 

“What is it?” Bill asked quickly as he heard her 
groan. 




FLOPSY TAKES A TUMBLE 167 


“I think I’ve broken my—” she hesitated. “One 
knee and one wrist—and—” 

“Would you like me to run home and tell your 
mother?” Bill’s eyes were wide with horror and 
excitement. That groan of Flopsy’s had sounded like 
real anguish. 

“No—” Flopsy hastened to say, “I’ll get better.” 

“Not if you have broken so many bones! I’d love 
to tell your mother.” Bill heartily relished the im¬ 
portance of breaking such bad news. 

“She hasn’t broken her wrist,” Milton remarked. 
“She’s moved both of them, maybe she can stand up 
—if she tried very hard.” Milton was matter of fact, 
he was not looking for sensational effects as Bill 
was. 

“He knows it’s my pants, that they are busted out. 
He is mean and contemptible.” Flopsy groaned 
again. She made no effort to stand up. 

“Say, Milt, she’s groaning,” Bill said, with a wor¬ 
ried look. “Maybe she really did bust something.” 

Milton stared at Flopsy so seriously that she wrig¬ 
gled with embarrassment. 

“Oh, no, oh, no, I am all right. I just have to sit 
still for a while.” Yes, sitting was the only thing that 
would help her until the boys got tired of being very 
polite and would leave her alone. 

“How about sitting on my sweater now, I bet you 
are cold.” Bill pushed his sweater at her again. 

“You are telling me!” This time she did not re¬ 
fuse Bill’s sweater, but grabbed it. Yes, she knew 
that she had a big tear in the seat of her suit, and that 
she was sitting on ice. Gingerly, she slipped it under 
her. When would those boys move? They had never 
stuck so close to her before. 




168 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Do you know where Janet is? She lent me her 
uncle’s hockey stick and I have it with me,” Milton 
asked nonchalantly. He was standing on his skates 
—he apparently intended to hold a conversation. 

“Oh, that’s it— Janet” Flopsy groaned—this 
time to herself. “That’s it, he is going to stick around 
talking about Janet. Oh, goodness.” 

“No,” she answered aloud as shortly and brusquely 
as possible. She wasn’t going to give him any hope 
that she knew anything about Janet. Perhaps he 
might get disgusted and leave her alone. 

“The ice is punk this afternoon—all cut up, and 
everything, but do you know—now—is, do you think 
that Alice is coming up?” Milton did not dare ask 
another direct question about Janet, so he substituted 
the name of her constant companion these days. 

Flopsy reserved a literal and figurative icy silence. 
Would she have to sit there and freeze to death all 
afternoon, and listen to Milton chatter about Janet? 
He made her sick. Maybe, on account of him, she’d 
get pneumonia. 

“Is—are—any of your friends going to the High 
School dance?” Milton affected an offhand tone. 

Poor Flopsy! Would he never go?, She shrugged 
rather sulkily. She knew that Janet was going, and 
with a high school boy. She would almost have en¬ 
joyed telling Milton so, just to annoy him, but she 
simply would not let herself be drawn into a conver¬ 
sation. 

“I hear,” began Bill, as he eyed his feet, and dug 
his skates into the ice, “that your club is going to 
have a party. Now—a Mary—” 

“We are not. We are not a club any more.” 
Flopsy could not resist the temptation to say this 
much, although she was nearly stiff with cold. 



FLOPSY TAKES A TUMBLE 169 


Bill’s face flushed and, for some reason, he looked 
embarrassed. 

“Stung out of a party?” 

“Oh, gee!” and William scowled and blushed as 
he skated away. 

“Don’t you think that Janet will come, for her 
uncle will want this stick?” Milton refused to give 
up hope. Flopsy’s teeth were chattering and, unlike 
Milton, she had given up hope. The foot under her 
was sound asleep, and was having nightmares in its 
sleep. She longed with Milton for Janet. If Janet 
would only come. 

Then over the reservoir rang a very familiar and 
welcome voice. It was a voice plainly striving to be 
heard far and wide, although only in a private con¬ 
versation. Alice wanted everyone to know of her 
approach. She was talking to Janet. “Yelling,” 
Flopsy privately called it, not talking. Although 
Janet did not raise her voice, she laughed in an af¬ 
fected fashion. She, too, wished to have her presence 
known! 

Milton heard Alice and he knew at once who was 
with her. 

“Don’t come down on this side!” he called up. 
“Flopsy just fell there; it’s awfully slippery. You 
better walk around to the other side.” 

Flopsy grabbed her skates, put the strap between 
her teeth and, with hope shining bright in her eyes, 
she waited until Milton’s back was turned. She 
waited for a few minutes until he was at a safe dis¬ 
tance before she turned her back upon the reservoir. 
William Forbes was in a far corner making circles. 
Something had annoyed him, he was apparently in a 
sulk. Flopsy slowly began to crawl up the embank¬ 
ment. Every few seconds she sat down and watched 




170 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


the skaters—she was taking no chances that Bill or 
Milton might spy her rear view and let out a joyous 
hoot. They were not going to have an opportunity to 
make up any more lovely poems about her—not if 
she could help it. She could too easily imagine their 
shouting— 

“Flopsy from Ireland, Flopsy from Cork, had a 
hole in her breeches as big as New York.” 

No, siree! They wouldn’t get this chance! 

The trip up that embankment was uncertain and 
difficult. She had to watch where she was going and 
what she left behind at the same time. 

For the first time Flopsy rejoiced in Janet’s in¬ 
terest in boys. Both Bill and Milton were now too 
busily occupied in helping the two girls down to 
even notice her own remarkable journey. Bill had 
quite forgotten that she might have half a dozen 
broken bones. Just as Flopsy crawled over the top 
and was about to make an effort to stand she heard 
Fleurette’s voice. Horrors upon horrors, she was 
coming toward her with Frank Gordon. 

“Well, hello Flops!” Fleurette greeted her 
boisterously. Fleurette was in high spirits—she knew 
Alice Holt would be “sore” when she saw her with 
Frank. Alice wouldn’t know that their meeting was 
very accidental. “How’s the ice?” 

“Rotten!” Flopsy’s tone was listless and flat. She 
was sitting dejectedly upon a small stump. 

“Oh, we don’t care, we will try it,” Fleurette 
answered cheerily. 

“What’s the matter, Flops?” Frank squinted up 
his face as though deeply puzzled. “Are you coming 
or going?” 

“Staying!” Flopsy answered, but she made a 



FLOPSY TAKES A TUMBLE 171 


frantic motion to Fleurette to go on. Frank was look¬ 
ing down at the ice—looking for someone. 

Flopsy shaped the tragic words with her lips, 
“Busted out my pants.” 

Fleurette, never blessed with much sensitiveness, 
thought the situation very funny. As she afterwards 
expressed it, she simply had to bust out laughing at 
Flopsy and her busted out pants. 

Fleurette turned around as though to tell Frank. 
Flopsy set her teeth together and almost wished that 
she could fling her skates at Fleurette’s head. Fleu¬ 
rette’s laughter was grating on over-strained feel¬ 
ings. 

Frank guessed at once that there was some joke 
going on behind his back. He got the wrong idea. 
“Who are you waiting for? I know, it’s Bill. I see 
him down there.” He fancied that he had cleverly 
hit on the joke. 

Flopsy felt herself getting into one of her childish 
tempers. 

“Hey—Bill! Here’s—” but Frank never added 
“Flopsy”—for something in her face made him 
change his mind. 

“Ah, say, come on,” he beckoned towards the ice 
with his head. He had spied the person he was 
looking for. Quite impolitely he slid down the em¬ 
bankment, and let Fleurette scramble after him in 
any fashion that she could. 

“Hope they break all their necks—” And Flopsy 
tore like a wild and haunted thing up the street— 
for home. She thought, crossly: “How different the 
girls are this year—they are just—SILLY!” 



Chapter Fourteen 

A Picnic and a Mishap 

T HE ice disappeared from the old reservoir, 
and the snow melted from the lots and lawns, 
leaving here and there in some sheltered 
spot a dirty patch, as a last remnant of winter. The 
calendar proclaimed that spring was at hand, although 
the weather was often bleak and cold. Then, quite 
suddenly, one lovely warm day followed another 
and, as though by magic, forsythia bushes burst into 
full bloom—and were a bright golden yellow. On 
the window sills of School Number Nine were 
bunches of Mayflowers, dog-toothed violets, and 
purple violets and myrtles. Once again, long rows 
of red and yellow tulips were pasted against the 
kindergarten window panes. 

Number Nine had had a splendid record that 
spring, for they were undisputed champions in their 
baseball league. They had lost only one game. This 
game had been won by a team that had been beaten 
several times, and they could not seriously be taken 
as contenders to the championship. Number Nine 
had blazed its way to glory. 

This one game that they had lost was the only 
game which Flopsy had witnessed. It was her boasted 
bad luck following her. It had been a most un¬ 
pleasant afternoon, for Fleurette had got into a 

172 


A PICNIC AND A MISHAP 173 


very undignified and heated argument with a strange 
girl rooting for the other side. Fleurette had called 
their side cheats, and the retort came back that 
Fleurette was a big sorehead. Flopsy found the 
quarrel unseemly and disagreeable. Alice and Janet 
had stayed near the boys whenever they could, and 
when the boys were playing they proudly arrayed 
themselves in their red and gray sweaters, adorned 
with big number nines; and they strutted about for 
all to see. Flopsy thought that they were decidedly 
showing off, and they made her very tired. She 
never went to another game. 

Mr. Morris was very proud of his team. “The 
Nine of Number Nine” was his delighted boast. 
So, he planned that the third Saturday of May should 
be a day of rejoicing and celebration for the whole 
school. They should have a day’s picnic at Crystal 
Lake. Number Nine was wildly enthusiastic over 
the idea, for never before had they that envied 
pleasure of special buses—and everything! It was 
to be a day to look forward to—and back upon! 

“I want a new dress—” Flopsy announced before 
the event. 

“What for?” Mrs. Moore asked in surprise. 

“For our bus ride,” Flopsy answered, as though 
surprised that her mother should ask. 

“A new dress for a bus ride?” 

“Yes, I’d like a nice little silk one with flowers 
on it—” 

“Flopsy Moore, I never in my life heard of such 
a thing! People wear linens and ginghams to picnics. 
Now, your tan linen would be just the thing!” 

“Oh, mother,” Flopsy shrieked in protest. “You 
don’t mean it! Why Fleurette is going to wear a 




174 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


white crepe dress—a beautyl And Dottie’s going to 
wear the sweetest green one—” 

“Maybe they have nothing more suitable to wear, 
but you have,” Mrs. Moore said shortly. 

“But mother! Alice is going to wear that sweet 
pink dress—and I have to wear a dress that I have 
worn lots of times to school.” Flopsy was almost 
heart broken at the idea, and her voice broke. 

“Good gracious, Flopsy, plain khaki is more suit¬ 
able for a picnic than a—silk dress. Well dressed 
people do not wear laces and silks for sporting trips 
and—bus rides.” 

But Flopsy felt that she really knew better than 
her mother. She stubbornly refused to see any point 
of view but her own. Mrs. Moore gave in to her, 
because she knew that sometimes experience is the 
best teacher. Flopsy was to wear a green voile dress 
—sheer but simple. 

The day of days arrived at last, and Flopsy was 
up with the sun, and was just about as beaming and 
rosy as it was. Neither the sun nor the minutes 
moved fast enough for her. She could scarcely wait 
for the time to be off and on her way. She would 
not believe any clock in the house. Her mother to 
humor her had to call the time operator on the 
telephone to make sure. Two hours more to wait—an 
hour and a half—one hour—. The time dragged 
and dragged. Flopsy was then quite sure that her 
mother had not heard the time operator correctly. 
Wouldn’t she please call her again? 

As usual she was dashing out of the house minutes 
ahead of time. She carried her lunch under one arm, 
and a fifty cent piece was reposing in her little white 



A PICNIC AND A MISHAP 175 


purse. She was a dainty summery picture in her 
white hat and her pretty green voile dress. Mrs. 
Moore kissed her excited daughter fondly and 
proudly. 

“Now do be careful—don’t do this—don’t do 
that—” Flopsy heard these “don’ts,” but they were 
so many and her spirits were so high, and her head in 
such a whirl, that she scarcely understood them— 
or heard them after all! 

Flopsy was positively amazed, dumbfounded when 
she saw Janet, for she was dressed in a plain, dark 
blue linen, with white collars and cuffs. It was a 
costume that she had worn to school many times. 
Flopsy’s first thought at seeing her took form in a 
sincere hope that her mother would not see Janet! 
Alice did look very sweet beside Janet or, as Flopsy 
put it, “Janet looked crazy beside Alice.” 

“Hello, are you going to stay with Milton today?” 
Flopsy asked eagerly and anxiously of Janet as soon 
as she was in speaking distance. She did hope that 
the old T. M. S. would stick together for the day. 

“No,” Janet shook her head, “I am getting very, 
very tired of him.” She smiled at Flopsy in her sweet 
way. Flopsy’s heart gave a bound—now they would 
all stay together and have a good time, the way they 
had long ago. As they got into the bus Flopsy saw 
the team piling into the bus behind. They looked as 
though they had pledged themselves to stay together; 
perhaps, who knows, that was why Janet was so 
very, very tired of Milton. The ride to Crystal 
Lake was all that one’s heart could have desired in 
the way of fun—that is, if noise is a sure indication 
of fun—for their shouts could be heard two blocks 
coming and two blocks going. 



176 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


The nine gave their yell every few seconds, and 
between yells they shrieked at the people on the 
street, and at passing automobiles. 

“Oh, you with the green hat!” 

“Oh, you flivver. Get an automobile!” 

“Does your mother know you are out?” 

Occasionally they would call: “Who are we?” 
and everyone within earshot would realize who was 
having the time of their lives, for they promptly 
answered their own question, “We are the Nine of 
Number Nine —” Then came their yell. 

Flopsy lost her handkerchief out of the window 
waving it at a grocery wagon. But she was, like them 
all, in such fine spirits that nothing mattered. Her 
cheeks were flaming, her eyes dancing, she laughed 
loudly and incessantly with the others. The more 
noise, the more fun. 

Dottie was impatient to try her lunch, and, quite 
before they realized it, they had all tried it with her, 
and it was all gone, with the exception of one choco¬ 
late marshmallow covered cookie. This was mislaid 
for the time being. Its loss was not noted, but when 
they left the bus—its reappearance was! It was dis¬ 
covered between two of the ruffles of Fleurette’s 
white crepe dress. 

“I should worry!” Fleurette tossed her head 
scornfully. “It will come out, anyway, I have other 
dresses just as good.” But despite her boast she 
rubbed away at the spot with her handkerchief, and 
succeeded in making it look decidedly worse. Janet’s 
mouth went down at the corners in great disdain at 
Fleurette’s lack of daintiness, for Janet herself was 
fastidious and very particular about her belongings. 
That chocolate marshmallow was the first omen of 





A PICNIC AND A MISHAP 177 


bad luck for the day. Janet was the first one to feel 
it. 

Crystal Lake was scarcely more than a pond in 
size, and nature had nothing to do with its existence 
—it was what might be called a hand made lake. At 
one end of it was a small, very shabby boat-house 
with its canoes and rowboats lying listlessly before it 
on the still, sluggish waters of the lake. From a dis¬ 
tance, or through rose colored glasses, the lake might 
have appeared pretty, but in the glaring merciless 
light of midday it was almost ugly. Even the pond 
lilies and the tiny stretch of woodland along one 
side were not sufficient to make it entrancing, for 
they were more than offset by the rickety merry-go- 
round, scenic railroad, frankfurter—peanut—popcorn 
stands 5 and the pavilion with its tables and not very 
inviting restaurant. 

Flopsy looked about in disappointment. Crystal 
Lake had once been such—a pretty place—now, well, 
now it was ugly. Crystal Lake had once been one of 
her bright and happy memories. She had not been to 
it for five years. Her ardor for the picnic was like 
Janet’s, slightly dampened. 

“I love canoeing! Me for a canoe—” Fleurette’s 
eyes were alight with joyous anticipation. 

“I am forbidden to go in a canoe,” Janet said in 
a superior manner. “No one but a crazy ignorant 
person would go into a canoe unless they could swim. 
Can you?” Janet’s expression plainly showed that 
she did not expect a “yes” from Fleurette. 

There was a chorus of protests. 

“Long ago, when I could only swim ten strokes, 
I went out in a canoe. My father was with me, and 
he is not crazy or ignorant. Now I swim—a long 



178 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


way!” Flopsy looked longingly at the tiny canoes 
swaying to and fro, due to the ripples made by a 
passing rowboat with a kicker in it. 

“Wouldn’t you go, Janet, if the boys took us?” 
Alice asked, deeply disappointed at Janet’s disap¬ 
proval. 

“No,” she answered shortly, giving the boys a 
disdainful look. They were having a catch and had 
been quite unaware of the girls’ very existence the 
whole morning. Janet continued: “I told you, Alice, 
that I didn’t want to have anything to do with the 
boys and I meant it! I am sick and tired of Milton, 
and I am not going to bother with him any more. 
Why do you suppose I have ignored him all morn¬ 
ing?” 

The girls were taken aback by Janet’s tone and 
manner, as both were new. 

“And, anyway, we have to go and ask Mr. Morris 
if we can take a canoe. You know very well Miss 
Hilton told us that. I went to a camp one summer 
and I can swim a hundred yards , but I never took a 
test to go in a canoe—and I am not going in one.” 
Janet’s tone was now thoroughly squelching. 

“Wouldn’t you even go in a rowboat?” Flopsy 
managed to get up enough spunk to ask, after a pain¬ 
ful pause. “They are so harmless. And those are 
such big heavy ones—” 

“Well—maybe!” Janet agreed condescendingly. 

It was midday, and the sun poured down upon 
the lake. Some of the school were gathered in groups 
under the shade of the trees and were unpacking their 
lunches. The teachers were at the tables under the 
pavilion. Dottie’s lunch had been enough for these 
girls for a while. They were not desperately hungry. 



A PICNIC AND A MISHAP 179 


The five girls (Mary had not been permitted to 
come) went to the boathouse unnoticed. 

“Who knows how to row?” the man who rented 
the boats, asked anxiously. He did not wish to be 
blamed for a tragedy. 

There was a second’s pause, and then Flopsy 
answered up: 

“I do.” She never looked at Janet. She was 
afraid that Janet would ask some leading questions— 
which, at that moment, she had no very clear answers 
for. 

The five girls arranged themselves and their 
lunches in the big, flat-bottomed rowboat. Flopsy 
was at the oars. The first dozen strokes took them 
out into the lake. A certain tension was relieved. 
Not one of the girls thought Flopsy could row— 
including Flopsy herself. 

“Don’t trail your hand in the water, Fleurette, 
it’s dangerous,” Alice commanded sharply. 

“Dangerous? Oh, goodness! What a scared-cat! 
I always do that, and everyone else does—” Fleu¬ 
rette laughed scornfully. 

“Don’t!” Dottie begged, in a shrill, weak voice. 

“Well, if you are going to get reckless, I am go¬ 
ing in,” Janet protested crossly. “Besides, it is ter¬ 
ribly hot out here, it’s making me sick.” 

Flopsy said nothing; she was straining every 
muscle. 

“Aren’t we whirling along, though? We have 
been passing that lily pad for ten minutes,” Alice re¬ 
marked as she drew down the corners of her mouth 
and made a face at Flopsy’s back. 

Flopsy drew her oars up and stopped rowing. 
She glanced around her shoulder. 



180 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“You can get out, Miss Holt, if you don’t like 
my rowing,” she snapped. 

“May I? Well, Flora, dear, just land me on the 
next lily-pad, if we ever get to another— I am 
such a fairy that I could fly to shore. Because, really, 
I hate walking in water over my head; my mother 
never lets me do it, anyway.” 

Flopsy bit deeper into her lips and her eyes 
smoldered. 

“Shut up!” 

After this unladylike outburst there was a few 
minutes of silence during which the boat glided 
about at will. 

“I am getting sick,” Janet groaned. “Take me 
in— quick.” 

“What do you think I am—a steam engine? I 
am tired, I have to rest.” Flopsy certainly did look 
tired and very warm. 

“Oeoh—I—am—sick—” Janet wailed again. 
“Row, Flopsy, fleas e” 

Flopsy realized that her strength was going fast, 
her left arm seemed to be giving out altogether. 
She rowed with only her right arm. 

“Say, for Pete’s sake, what are you doing? Trying 
to be funny? We are going around in circles—” 
Alice shrieked. “Go straight ahead.” 

But Flopsy could not obey this very sensible com¬ 
mand. She took one oar in both hands and pulled— 
and then took the other oar in both hands—and 
pulled! The boat went around and around as though 
on a pivot. 

“Oe—o—o—goodness.” Janet’s wail was now 
very weak and thin. Her lips quivered suspiciously 
and ominously. 




You can get out y Miss Holt y if you don’t like my rowing. 






























































A PICNIC AND A MISHAP 183 


“Oh, Flopsy, go in, 55 Dottie pleaded nervously. 
“Please, hurry, please! We are all getting sick.” 

Fleurette was laughing boisterously. 

“Janet’s getting seasick in a rowboat!” she shouted 
in wild derision. 

“Pipe down!” Alice blazed. “This isn’t a row¬ 
boat—it’s a merry-go-round.” 

Flopsy gritted her teeth and, with perspiration 
pouring into her eyes, she desperately pulled at the 
oars—both oars. She made some headway this time, 
but she splashed Alice from head to foot with 
water. 

“Hey, look out! My dress is a mess! This water 
isn’t for bathing, it’s filthy. Who ever told you that 
you could row, anyway?” 

Flopsy looked like a thunder cloud, but she did 
not answer. 

“Please hurry, Flopsy.” Dottie was so frightened 
and nervous that she could hardly talk. “This boat is 
leaking, we will all sink.” 

“That’s not coming in at the bottom—that’s the 
water that our smart little rower is throwing into the 
boat every few minutes,” Alice said, witheringly. She 
hardly had the words out of her mouth, when Flopsy 
caught a crab and fell backwards into the boat. She 
landed full on Janet’s fine big chocolate cake and 
Alice’s delicious ripe cherries. 

“Oh, glo—ry!” Alice yelled angrily. “What did 
you have to do that for?” 

“We are going to—sink—” Dottie wailed in a 
high and wobbly treble. 

“I—am—sick—” Janet had one hand on her 
head, the other on her stomach. 

Flopsy pulled herself to her seat, and sat perfectly 




184 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


still, in a completely stunned fashion. Her back was 
sticky with a variety of juices and her head throbbed 
with the suddenness of her fall. They were now 
very near the landing and a few strokes brought them 
in. 

“Just look at that mess.” Fleurette stared re¬ 
gretfully down upon the ruins of the cake and 
cherries. 

“Oh, who wants to look at it?” Janet said peev¬ 
ishly, her mouth working nervously. “I don’t want 
to see any whole food as long as I live, and I cer¬ 
tainly don’t want to see any that is all mashed up.” 

Flopsy took her lunch under her arm and walked 
off. She, too, felt sick and, added to this, she felt 
that she had been deeply misused and injured. She 
was only trying to give them all a good time. 

“Wait, Flops, don’t go away mad,” Fleurette 
called after her. “I will help you get that mess off. 
Let’s go and get some clean water.” 

The woman who ran the lunch counter or res¬ 
taurant came to the rescue. She told Flopsy that 
she might take her dress off and wash it, and she 
would only charge her ten cents for soap, water and 
bowl. Flopsy removed her pretty little green voile, 
pretty no longer, and set to work to get it clean. But 
the stain from the cherries would not budge. She spent 
the next hour and a half in that tiny hot kitchen while 
her dress dried. The odor of dish water and the 
steam from the cooking made her weak and sick. 
She ate her lunch—and three ice cream cones and a 
bag of cracker-jack. Fleurette stayed with her most 
of the time. Alice was playing nurse to Janet. 

Dottie came in after a while to visit her. She was 
bemoaning the effect of two glasses of root beer, and 




A PICNIC AND A MISHAP 185 


three rides on the merry-go-round. Flopsy felt, as 
she listened, as though she were in prison, and visitors 
from the outside world were bringing news. 

“What are the boys doing?” she asked Dottie. 

“They are lying down under the trees. Bill 
Forbes went out in a canoe without permission, and 
Mr. Morris yelled at him to come right straight in, 
so he hurried, and just as he was landing he toppled 
over. He was just soaking wet.” 

“Is he drowned?” Flopsy was excited. 

“No, he is all right. His clothes are hanging out¬ 
side the hot-dog stand, and he is under the counter.” 

Flopsy laughed dismally. 

“Picnics are some fun, all right! Never again! I 
suppose Milton is talking to Janet?” 

“No, Milton was firing hard-boiled eggs at the 
boys, and several of them were not even hard-boiled, 
so now he has to stay all day near Mr. Morris or 
Miss Hilton.” 

“Serves him good and right, I am glad,” Flopsy 
said, spitefully. “He is such a big show-off.” 

Flopsy put on her crumpled, stained, green voile 
dress. It took considerable courage not to face—but 
to turn her back upon her schoolmates. The girls 
sat under a tree for the next hour and wished in one 
accord for home. They were all in various degrees 
of a bad humor. 

“My mother didn’t want me to come to this old 
picnic, and now I wish I hadn’t. I have had an 
awful time, and I am just disgusted with Milton. 
I thought he had some sense, but he has acted like 
a two-year-old, all day.” Janet’s eyes narrowed with 
contempt. 

“Well, my mother didn’t want me to wear a light- 



186 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


colored dress, she said that sensible people didn’t— 
but I wore this one just on account of Alice and 
Fleurette.” Flopsy looked crossly at her two 
friends. “They wanted to wear fancy dresses.” 

“Well, my dress would look all right if you hadn’t 
splashed me all over,” Alice said equally crossly. 

“We have such a good laundress that I am sure 
if I got my dress all stained up, she could have fixed 
it.” Janet was boasting for the first time. 

“Well, Mrs. Titmouse is pretty good, too.” 
Flopsy tried a little boasting herself. Mrs. Tit¬ 
mouse came in to do her mother’s washing and iron¬ 
ing, and cleaning. 

“Mrs.— what?” Janet squealed. “There couldn’t 
be a person with a name like that—you just made 
it up this very minute.” Janet was certainly in a 
humor that the girls had never seen before. 

Flopsy flushed angrily. 

“Do you think I am just making it up that my 
mother has someone to do our washing and ironing? 
Her name is Mrs. Titmouse. You can come over on 
Monday, Wednesday or Friday mornings and ask her 
right to her face. I dare you to.” 

Janet laughed and raised her pretty eyebrows. 

“Don’t be silly,” she said, with syrupy sweetness. 
“I was only teasing you. You are so easy to tease. 
Mrs. Titmouse is a funny name, and I never heard 
you say before that you had a laundress. I thought 
that you were just trying to be funny. You know, 
lots of times you do try to be funny.” 

Flopsy’s eyes were narrow with rage. She set her 
mouth tight. She looked straight ahead and did not 
answer Janet. 

Why, she asked herself, did her mother have to 
pick out a woman to work for them with such a 



A PICNIC AND A MISHAP 187 


name? There must be millions of people with names 
that Janet would not have laughed at. Her mother 
had to have the most ridiculous name in the world— 
for a washwoman. 

“Do you know?” Dottie put in nervously—this 
conversation had made her heart beat very fast. 
She must change it. “Miss Hilton was very sick all 
day. I felt very sorry for her. She was awfully pale. 
Like a ghost. I guess picnics make her nervous or 
something. I heard her tell Miss Winters she was 
all in. And I just saw Mr. Morris help her over to 
Miss Winters’ car—and put her into it. She has gone 
home. She looked nearly dead. Honest.” 

Flopsy turned her back on Janet. She looked 
straight at Dottie, her eyes filled with concern. 

“Oh, she’s been pale in school for a long time,” 
Dottie went on. 

The girls were all genuinely shocked to hear that 
their teacher had been taken home sick. 

“Wouldn’t it be terrible if she was sick for a long 
time. Graduation is only a month off—” Flopsy 
said soberly. “And she’s been very nice lately,” she 
added generously. 

At five o’clock, Number Nine got back into their 
big special buses and left for home, dirty—hot— 
tired—and cross! 

The boys bawled out theme songs of popular radio 
programs in strained discordant voices. Some of them 
were tunes so new that the words were unfamiliar, 
but that bothered them as little as keeping the tune. 
Nobody cared about anything. They yelled at 
passers-by on the streets, but they did it so disagree¬ 
ably that Mr. Morris soon stopped them sternly. 

The girls talked very little—but what conversation 
there was, was of Miss Hilton. The more they talked 



188 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


of her the more worried they became, and the more 
Miss Hilton appeared like a heroine. 

Flopsy almost fell up her front steps when she 
got home. She wanted to go straight to bed without 
answering any questions. She hoped she could dash 
upstairs and change her dress, so that she would not 
have to discuss it until next day. She took flying 
leaps for the stairs, and was almost up them when 
her mother called: 

“Hello there, dear. Have a good time?” 

Flopsy leaned over the railing. “Well—kinder—. 
Miss Hilton got awfully sick and fainted I guess. 
And they had to carry her to a car. Isn’t that terrible? 
We are all so worried. You know, graduation and— 
all.” Flopsy’s tone was very pious. 

“Oh, Flopsy, that is too bad. The poor girl! She 
is all tired out,” Mrs. Moore said, regretfully. 
Flopsy’s mother would speak of Miss Hilton as 
though she were only a girl! “Where are you go¬ 
ing, honey? I want you to come and tell me all about 
the picnic.” 

“I am going to change my dress, you know you 
always like me to do that when I’ve been dressed 
up.” 

“Well—what is going to happen? I never knew 
you to do it unless I asked you a half dozen times. 
Well, run along, and then come down and tell me 
the story. Probably the dress needs washing any¬ 
way.” 

“And how it needs washing!” Flopsy said to her¬ 
self. Aloud, she shouted, “Okay! Just in a jiffy.” 

The story that went with the dress would come out 
later. But not to-night—thank goodness! 



Chapter Fifteen 


The Graduating Class IVLeets a Substitute 

HE following Monday morning after the 
excursion, the Eight B faced a strange 



A teacher. She was young—even younger than 
Miss Hilton, and she distinctly showed signs of 
nervousness. 

It had been a very long time since the eighth grade 
had had a substitute, and a substitute meant just one 
thing to them—fun! Although her appearance was 
a surprise, they quickly readjusted the feeling for 
work to one of play. 

“Class!” the teacher began in a faltering voice. 
“Miss Hilton is very sick and I hope—I hope that— 
well —What are you doing? )y she burst out, looking 
straight at William. He was standing, and was 
making queer gutteral noises in his throat, to the 
intense delight of the class. 

“I have a sickness which bothers my throat, I 
have to stand. I must blow my nose. Can I do it 
here, or shall I leave the room?” 

The substitute frowned and eyed him suspiciously. 
“Why—yes.” 

A tremendous noise sounded throughout the room, 
and then another blast louder than the first. The 
eighth grade broke into laughs of frank enjoyment. 

“Leave the room!” 


189 



190 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


William bowed his head meekly and obeyed the 
command. He went into the cloak-room and closed 
the door. 

“NoWy class!” protested the new teacher, as she 
tried to quiet the tittering. But from under the door 
came the sound of exaggerated nose-blowing. It was 
repeated several times, each time more forcibly than 
the last. 

“Tell that boy to come here,” she ordered sharply, 
an angry red mounting to her face. 

Four boys and three girls left their seats to obey 
her general command. Three of them crowded 
through the swinging doors and delivered the mes¬ 
sage to William. He re-entered with an innocent, 
gentle expression on his face. 

“What is your name?” she demanded hotly. 

“Percy,” he answered, as he lowered his head. 

The class was in an uproar. Some of the boys 
nearly rolled out of their seats in hilarious laughter. 

“Do you want to go to Mr. Morris?” Her eyes 
were flashing. 

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he shook his head as though 
grieved and surprised at her harsh question. 

“Well, then, take your seat and don’t do that 
again.” 

William dropped wearily into his seat, as though 
deeply injured. 

“Now, class, we will get to work. I shall write my 
name on the board.” 

They waited expectantly. “Miss Barnard,” she 
wrote. 

Flopsy leaned over to Dottie and whispered: “Miss 
Barn Yard. She’s a chicken all right.” 

Walter Smith heard Flopsy and he thought her 



A SUBSTITUTE 


191 


remark very clever, so he passed it on to Milton. 
Milton almost shouted it to William. 

So when Miss Barnard turned to face the class, 
smiling good-naturedly, she was bewildered at the 
giggles that she heard. 

“Class, this will do! I have had enough of it! 
Enough!” Suddenly her eyes fell upon Flopsy. 
Flopsy was holding an animated conversation with 
Alice and Harold Brownley. 

“What’s your name?” 

Flopsy tried to answer but snickered instead. 

“Flopsy!” Fleurette sang out, realizing that the 
nickname would be confusing to Miss Barnard. It 
was not on her seating list. 

“What?” Miss Barnard was puzzled. “What is 
your name? Stand up and tell me your own name. 
Don’t any one answer for this girl again.” 

Flopsy stood, and then she caught Bill’s eye. She 
swelled with pride, for she was now occupying the 
center of the stage! She was just as bad as Bill Forbes 
this minute. 

“What is your name?” Miss Barnard repeated irri¬ 
tably. 

“Flop-sy,” she giggled as she said it. 

Flopsy tried again, but she burst into laughter, and 
dropped into her seat. Miss Barnard looked up and 
down her seating list. There was no name on it that 
looked like this silly name. She frowned. 

“Well, young lady, if your name is as funny as all 
that, I would change it to something sensible,” she 
said witheringly. 

Flopsy put her head down upon her desk and 
laughed uncontrollably. There were echoes of her 
laughter all over the room. 



192 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Miss Barnard looked upon Flopsy’s heaving shoul¬ 
ders in hostile disdain. She had taken an instant dis¬ 
like to Flopsy, a dislike that she made no attempt to 
curb or control. 

“Class, if you don’t get down to work, I’ll call 
Mr. Morris in—” she threatened. This had a quieting 
effect for a few minutes. 

Three of the window shades went up with a bang. 
The silence was broken. There were titters from 
every angle in the room. 

“Who did that?” 

No one answered. Smiles were everywhere facing 
her, but there was no other response to her question. 

“Now, class! ” She sat down at her desk. “We will 
do nothing until this room is perfectly quiet. Every 
minute we waste now we will make up after school—” 

A long heart-rending sigh, as though from the 
very depth of someone’s soul, answered her—and 
then snickers. 

“Do you realize that graduation is only five weeks 
off? Not one of you cares to be left back. I am going 
to see Miss Hilton this week, and I shall give her 
a report of your behavior.” 

The class seriously considered this point of view, 
and it subdued them for a while. Everything, how¬ 
ever, that she attempted to do, was discussed and 
thrashed out by the class. Miss Hilton and Mr. Mor¬ 
ris’ methods were never so respected. They would not 
permit one variation of the usual rule. 

Flopsy did not work for four days. She heartily 
despised Miss Barnard; for the first experience with 
her still smarted. And in her antagonism Flopsy 
shrewdly discovered that Miss Barnard had many 



A SUBSTITUTE 


193 


flaws as a teacher. She learned to recognize set 
phrases and mannerisms, and to delighted audiences 
after school she gave sharp, clever imitations of their 
substitute. 

“Now, class—we will listen to the clock!” Flopsy 
would chant as the latest catch expression. 

Flopsy’s bad lessons gave Miss Barnard an oppor¬ 
tunity to be sarcastic and disagreeable. But Flopsy 
didn’t care now, for everything Miss Barnard said or 
did, she put into the back of her head, merely to 
mimic the second she was out of school. Flopsy had 
taken a very wicked delight in the situation. 

It rather annoyed her that Miss Barnard should 
make a special favorite of Janet. For Janet was far 
from a good student, but she was always quiet and 
attentive. Her pretty clothes and sweet manner 
shone out favorably among what Miss Barnard called 
a “lot of impossible savages.” Janet was held up as a 
paragon, hourly—and sometimes semi-hourly! 

For the first time, Flopsy planned, and made 
trouble, not in her old frank, reckless way, but in an 
underhand, careful fashion. She did not intend to 
get caught, at any cost. 

“Take that paper to the office.” Miss Barnard 
handed Flopsy a spelling paper, which looked as 
though it were broken out with measles—so many 
were the red marks. Flopsy took it, and walked 
quietly from the room. Then she thrust the paper 
down the neck of her dress. She went to the court, 
took several drinks of water, and stood for some 
minutes by a window looking out. She was thinking 
fast. Cautiously she left the court, and went towards 
the office. Luck served her well, for Mr. Morris was 
just leaving and was walking towards the stairs. She 



194 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


watched him until he had turned a bend in the stair¬ 
case, and then she darted back to the court, and waited 
there five minutes. 

“Mr. Morris is not in his office—” she reported, 
when she reached the room again. “I waited for 
him, and then I left the paper—” 

“All right,” Miss Barnard nodded curtly. “Take 
your seat.” 

Flopsy did not believe that Miss Barnard would 
investigate her story. She felt that she had been sent 
to the office for two purposes—to frighten her—and 
impress the class. These two objects had probably 
been accomplished so far as Miss Barnard knew. 
Flopsy had probably reasoned correctly, for she heard 
nothing more of her spelling paper. 

The first afternoon, Miss Barnard had kept eight 
pupils for half an hour; the second day, fifteen stayed 
for an hour; and on the fourth day the whole class, 
but Mary and Janet remained for over half an hour. 
On every one of the four days, Flopsy stayed until 
the last, she and Miss Barnard left by different doors, 
but at the same time! 

On the fifth morning, the eighth grade marched 
into their room, and found Miss Barnard and Mr. 
Morris. Mr. Morris stood like Napoleon. His 
mouth was a horizontal line and his eyes were cold 
and steady. 

“Now, I don’t know whether you fully realize the 
seriousness of your examinations but a dangerously 
short time off. Some of you have imperiled your 
graduation—and some of you have lost it, in these 
last few days. It deeply pained me to have to report 
as I did to Miss Hilton, for she is sick. Miss Barnard 
and I, at her request, went to see her last evening. 



A SUBSTITUTE 


195 


What I have heard is a very disagreeable surprise. 
Among other things, a girl—a very good friend of 
Miss Hilton’s—but before I go farther, let me say 
that she is not a friend if these reports be true—has 
behaved in a most disappointing way. She doesn’t 
deserve to graduate, even though Miss Hilton still 
believes and trusts in her.” 

And Mr. Morris continued to talk for half an 
hour, on their past and future work. 

On his way from the room, he turned suddenly, 
and said sharply, “William Forbes, look out! Milton, 
Walter Smith, Fleurette Muldoon, Alice Holt, I 
have my eyes on you all. Get busy. Give yourselves 
a good shaking up! Flora Moore, I wish to speak 
to you for a few minutes. Come out into the hall with 
me.” 

Flopsy rose, white and frightened and followed 
Mr. Morris out into the hall. 

“Well?” He stood staring down into her face, and 
searched it to discover the truth of her. 

Flopsy hung her head and stood still and unre¬ 
sponsive. 

“Well, Flora, I have nothing to say to you. Miss 
Hilton asked me not to. Miss Hilton and Miss Bar¬ 
nard do not have the same opinion of one, Flora 
Moore. And Miss Hilton wishes to see you this af¬ 
ternoon. You had better go, Flora. She lives at 
Mrs. Jackson’s, 63 Mill Street, and Mrs. Jackson 
will be expecting you. Take the car, right here in 
front of the school—it is only ten minutes’ ride. 
Now, go back to your room,” and at that Mr. Morris 
turned abruptly and left her. 

Flora sat still in her seat in a daze. What could 
be in store for her? In her little purse, were three 



196 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


five cent pieces, that she had hoped to use for the 
movies. But now, another serious use for them loomed 
up before her. Should she go home first and tell her 
mother? Or should she ask Alice to stop at the house 
and deliver the news? 

“No,” she thought, “I’ll just go because mother 
would want to go with me, and I had better go alone. 
I will tell Alice.” Flopsy was thoroughly wretched 
and worried. 

At three o’clock, Flopsy dropped her change into 
the box of the “pay-as-you-enter” car, and asked the 
conductor to let her off at Mill Street. 



Chapter Sixteen 

Flopsy Pays a Call 

F LOPSY had never been to call on anyone in 
her life. Had she ever been given her choice, 
she certainly would not have desired her first 
call to be upon her teacher, after her wildest and 
w r orst week in school! She was almost numb with 
horror, it was decidedly her life’s darkest moment. 
A stinging tear welled to her eye, and trickled down 
her cheek, as she seated herself in the trolley car. 
One really could not burst out into sobs on a trolley 
car, even if one wanted to! Nobody ever did—except 
babies. She swallowed the tear, and as she tasted its 
brine, she fervently wished that she was in a beautiful 
white hearse that led a funeral procession. So pa¬ 
thetically young, so sweet—so sad—and so dead! 
Another tear was about to follow the course of the 
first one when the conductor motioned her to get off. 

Her very depressing guilty conscience got off the 
trolley with her and stuck very close as she walked 
up the steps of Mrs. Jackson’s house. Poor Flopsy’s 
face was very white, and her few faint freckles stood 
out in vivid contrast. Her knees shook as she rang 
the door bell. It was the loudest bell that she had 
ever heard in her life—it seemed to echo and re¬ 
echo. 

Annie, Mrs. Jackson’s maid of all work, came to 
the door. She glared down at Flopsy. 

197 



198 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Is—?” Flopsy gulped and choked. “Is, now,—” 
she moistened her lips. “Is this where Mrs. Jackson 
—now—Mr. Morris told me, now—does Mrs. Jack- 
son live here?” 

“Yeah,” said Annie, coldly. Her expression was 
dark. She was easier on dishes, and more considerate 
of them than she was on a little girl’s feelings. “What 
do you want?” she asked gruffly. 

Oh, dear, what did Flopsy want! As if it mattered! 
Truthfully, and honestly, she wanted to be anywhere 
else on earth than on Mrs. Jackson’s steps, facing 
Annie. 

“Miss Hilton,” Flopsy answered weakly. 

“Do you want Miss Hilton?” Annie frowned, 
doubtfully. “Are you sure you want Miss Hilton?” 

Flopsy nodded forlornly. She was very sure she 
did not want Miss Hilton. It was awful to have to 
tell such a fib. 

“Come on in,” Annie ordered, her tone surly. 
“And I’ll find out if she wants you. What’s your 
name?” 

Flopsy’s eyes were as dumb with speechless misery 
as some trapped animal’s might be. “Flora Moore,” 
and she hung her head. 

“All right, I’ll go and see—” and Annie lumbered 
up the stairs. 

Flopsy stood very still in the hall. She was spell¬ 
bound. Mrs. Jackson’s canary was singing and beat¬ 
ing against his cage for all the world like the bird in 
Tanglewood Tales , who tried to warn Ulysses about 
going any farther. 

“Oh, Flora!” called a nice kind voice, from up¬ 
stairs. “Come right up, my dear.” The “my dear,” 
made her sigh with a moment’s happy relief. She 



FLOPSY PAYS A CALL 199 


walked upstairs without one bit of feeling of any 
kind, or the least idea in the world, of what was be¬ 
hind her, with her, or in front of her. 

A tall, stout, gray-haired lady met her at the top 
of the stairs. To Flopsy, she looked as though she 
touched the ceiling. 

“I am so sorry I didn’t go to the door to meet you. 
We have been looking forward to your coming. I 
didn’t hear the bell.” 

Imagine that! Imagine not hearing that bell which 
had boomed and pealed like the one on dooms¬ 
day! 

“Miss Hilton is right in here, eagerly awaiting 
your coming.” Mrs. Jackson threw open a bedroom 
door. Light flooded the dark hall, a lovely golden 
light, warm, and caressing. The whole world was 
instantly transformed. For one thing, Mrs. Jackson 
shrank to a nice, comfortable size, she no longer 
looked ten feet high and three feet wide. Flopsy, 
as though in a trance, walked to the open doorway. 
The room seemed all windows, through which all 
the sunlight in the universe was rushing. There were 
many flowers—flowers with a lovely, beguiling fra¬ 
grance. 

“Oh, Flora!” a familiar, and yet not familiar 
voice broke the moment’s enchantment. 

There, in a big arm-chair by the window was— 
Miss Hilton, Miss Hilton, her school teacher—a 
superior human being, or rather—not a human being, 
but an altogether superior being. Miss Hilton, in a 
soft, fluffy negligee, her lovely hair (which had 
only a year before been bobbed) was now tumbling 
to her shoulders, in soft curls, like a little girl’s in 
a picture book (or a heroine in the movies)—it was 



200 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


unbelievable! About her head, to hold the curls in 
place was a band of ribbon. To Flopsy’s startled 
eyes, she looked no older than Alice’s sister who was 
only in college. 

Miss Hilton held out a thin white hand invitingly. 
“Come, Flopsy,” she smiled just a little mischiev¬ 
ously, as she gave the foolish, old nickname. “Come 
over here beside me. This chair has been impatiently 
waiting for you since three o’clock. Don’t disappoint 
it.” She motioned to the chair next her. 

Flopsy advanced slowly, primly into the room. A 
humble servitor in the presence of dethroned royalty 
could scarcely feel more ill at ease, and confused than 
Flopsy. 

“How are you, Miss Hilton?” Flopsy asked in a 
funny, strained voice, standing right before her 
teacher. 

“Not very well, but better, thank you,” she smiled 
kindly. “Please sit down won’t you?” 

“Yes, Miss Hilton,” Flopsy answered most prop¬ 
erly, and obediently, and sat herself on the edge of the 
proffered chair, looking thoroughly uncomfortable 
and prim. 

Miss Hilton laughed—a wonderful, happy laugh. 
Tears came to her eyes. She was very much amused 
over something—but what, Flopsy had not the wild¬ 
est notion. Flopsy stared at her solemnly, with a faint 
frown on her face. 

“You never saw me like this before, did you 
Flopsy?” Miss Hilton fairly bubbled over with 
mirth. “And I never saw you, as you are now—” 
and she laughed again. 

Flopsy tried to smile, but her smile was a very 
forced, self-conscious affair. Her eyes were twice 



FLOPSY PAYS A CALL 


201 


their normal size, her pretty red mouth pursed up 
to half its proper proportions. 

“Don’t you like me at all?” Miss Hilton’s eyes 
were dancing. “Not one bit, Flopsy Moore?” 

Flopsy nodded. “Yes, Miss Hilton.” 

“I’ll not press the matter, my dear, what that ‘yes’ 
really means. I like you—Flopsy—” The laughter 
had died out of Miss Hilton’s face and she leaned 
forward and very tenderly rested one hand over 
Flopsy’s. 

“I like you, Flopsy dear, won’t you believe me?” 
Her blue eyes were warm and moist. 

Sudden tears sprang to Flopsy’s eyes. 

“Oh, my dear little friend,” her voice was sweet, 
caressing, kind. Her hand closed tight on Flopsy’s. 
Flopsy’s other hand impulsively covered Miss Hil¬ 
ton’s and held it tight—very warmly tight. Her eyes 
were swimming, but glowing—with admiration and 
love. She shook her head. There was nothing to say 
—nothing in the world. 

“Pretty hair—what pretty hair you have, Flopsy! ” 
Flopsy’s eyes lowered, and several tears ran down 
her cheeks, and suddenly she pulled away from Miss 
Hilton’s touch and buried her face out of sight. 

Miss Hilton stood up, and knelt down by Flopsy’s 
chair, and gathered her pupil into her arms. Flopsy 
threw both arms about her neck, and sobbed uncon¬ 
trollably—sobbed as though her heart must break. 
Miss Hilton held her close for some minutes, until 
Flopsy’s sobs had become less racking. 

“Now,” Miss Hilton’s voice was gentle, “don’t 
you want to run into the bathroom and wash your 
face? With nice cold water? Then we will talk. 
There are so many nice things for us to talk about.” 



202 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Flopsy nodded gratefully, and flew from the room. 
Miss Hilton leaned back in her big chair again. 
Presently, Flopsy came back—her self-conscious¬ 
ness all gone,—although her nose was suspiciously 
pink, and her eyes red-rimmed. She was happy. She 
sprang into the chair beside Miss Hilton, eagerly, 
breathlessly waiting for their talk. 

“Flopsy, I have something very interesting to show 
you. Lots of somethings, in fact. They are here in 
my pocket.” From a silly, little lace pocket she 
pulled out a collection of letters. She looked them 
over, carefully. 

“Here is the first one—it is the most important,” 
and she handed Flopsy a big envelope. “You see, it’s 
been opened. Although it is addressed to you, it is 
in my care. Read it, dear.” 

Flopsy certainly was surprised. She glanced at the 
envelope—and to her amazement, she read: 

Miss Flopsy Moore 
61 Mill Street 

c/o Miss Molly Hilton 

Miss Flopsy Moore took out the enclosed letter, 
with a thumping heart, and eagerly turned to its con¬ 
tents. 

My dearest friend, Flopsy (Flopsy read in amaze¬ 
ment). 

You are my best friend, and you don’t even know 
who I am, isn’t that funny? Sometimes people don’t 
know their best friends. Alice is your best, or is it 
Fleurette ? 

I am Barbara Hilton—Miss Hilton’s little sister. It 
seems so strange to call her “Miss Hilton.” She is only 
Molly to me. 



203 


FLOPSY PAYS A CALL 


Let me tell you all about myself, because you may not 
want me for a friend. But, please, do. We are the same 
age, only a month apart. Isn’t that strange? But I don’t 
look like you. You have pretty red hair. I will list for 
you, the way I look. I always like stories where you 
know just exactly how the characters look. How can 
you recognize them when you meet them, if you don’t? 

!• ^ have jet black hair. I wear it parted right in 
the middle. It won’t curl, so instead, I make it shine. 

2. My eyes are black, not blue like Molly’s. They 
say they are like a little Indian girl’s eyes. 

3. My cheeks are white in the house, but red when 
I am out of doors. 

4. Now that my leg is all mended, I stand straight 
like an Indian. The cowboys say that I look like an 
Indian Princess, but I never saw an Indian girl, who 
looked like a princess. I don’t admire the ones about 
here. They are fatter than I am, Much! 

That’s how I look, Flopsy. These are the things I 
like. 

1. I love to read, and to make believe. I’ve read 
every book in our library, over and over. 

2. I love arithmetic. Molly says you don’t. But that 
won’t make any difference to us. 

3. I love this ranch, but more than anything else, 
I love friends. I like to have friends to talk to, to play 
with, and go places with. Sometimes, I am lonely. 

So, I decided to have you for a friend. Molly used 
to write me about you. I’ve known you for a long, long 
time. I’ve laughed so many times at funny things you 
have done. I laughed until the tears came about your 
blowing in the ink. I wished I did funny things like that. 
Once, several years ago, I fell off a bucking horse. I 
reckon it served me right, they told me I shouldn’t get 
on him, but I did. Everything happened after that. I 
always seemed to be sick. But, you’d like me now, be¬ 
cause I am almost very healthy. 




204 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Molly writes as though she was tired—or a little bit 
sick. Please don’t let the children make her sick. Oh, 

I hope and pray she keeps well. Do you know why? 

Something very wonderful and exciting is going to 
happen very soon. You could never guess what it is. 
And I dare not tell you. I want to surprise you. I once 
made three wishes—as they do in fairy tales. If this 
very wonderful thing comes true (and it will) my 
wishes will all come true too. 

Molly mustn’t get sick and I mustn’t get sick. And 
all Molly’s pupils must graduate. It will be like the 
ending to a beautiful fairy story when my wishes all 
come true. And it will be the saddest story in the world 
to me if they don’t. 

I love you Flopsy, you are my best friend, Molly 
loves you too. Oh if I could only tell you the— secret! 
But maybe you will know very soon. I hope so, I hope 
so! 

Loads and loads of love, 

from your best friend, 

Barbara Hilton 

“Finished Flopsy?” Miss Hilton was deeply 
touched by Flopsy’s expressions, for over her face 
flickered a dozen changes. She was surprised—proud 
—happy—ashamed—embarrassed—. The color came 
and went, she was white, and then a deep flush of 
crimson would dye her cheeks all the way up to the 
very roots of her hair. 

Flopsy held the letter in her hand after she had 
finished it. Miss Hilton gently touched her hand 
as she noted the quivering of Flopsy’s lips, and the 
deep flush of misery, and the anguish in her eyes. 

“Babbie wanted you to be proud and happy, Flopsy 
dear when you read her letter—” Miss Hilton said 
gently. “You are, aren’t you? She will ask me some 



FLOPSY PAYS A CALL 


205 


day just how you took it—were you pleased, happy?” 

Flopsy turned her head away. She could find no 
words. She did not want Miss Hilton to see the 
tears which had come to her eyes again. 

“Flopsy! Flopsy!” Miss Hilton rushed on, her 
voice filled with laughter. She knew there were tears 
in Flopsy’s eyes, even though she could not see them. 
“You know, Flopsy, Babbie can be such a little chatter¬ 
box! I can just hear her ask me over and over—‘Did 
Flopsy look surprised when she read my note? Did 
she laugh? Did she want me for a friend? Did she 
like my description of myself? What was the first 
thing she said?’ ” 

Flopsy turned her head and gave her teacher a very 
shaky little smile. She did not want to disappoint 
Miss Hilton—or Babbie. She knew that she was 
supposed to—smile. 

“There is a P.S. to Babbie’s letter. She doesn’t 
think a letter is all a letter should be unless there is a 
P.S. to it. Read it, Flopsy, it’s on the back of the last 
page. I want you to explain it to me. I can’t under¬ 
stand it at all. You and Babbie have a secret between 
you.” 

Flopsy turned the last page of the letter over, and 
read the P.S. automatically. 

P.S. 

Captain Stewart was out here in Rawhide. He was 
flying around the state. Of course he came to the ranch 
to see us. I told him how much I wanted to be in your 
class and Molly’s. He said he knew you very well. 

He sent you a message. I am going to repeat it word 
for word, because I can’t understand it at all. Here it 
is—“Tell Flopsy I kept my promise. Mum’s the 
word. Tell her that graves never tell their secrets. I 




206 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


have tried to help the cause. I think I have. Some day 

I want to shake Flopsy’s hand again. Remember me 

to Alice, too.” 

Flopsy read this elaborate and long P.S. over twice, 
and then she stared blankly at Miss Hilton. She had 
not the vaguest, foggiest idea what in all this wide 
world this message could mean. She had never heard 
of Captain Stewart. Her poor head was all befuddled 
with the events of the last hour or so. She shook her 
head like a funny nodding doll—and with just as 
much expression. 

“Don’t you know Captain Stewart?” Miss Hilton 
was now every bit as puzzled as Flopsy herself. 

Flopsy shook her head again. She simply could not 
think. 

“There is a photograph on my dresser. Doesn’t 
it look like any one you ever saw before?” Miss Hil¬ 
ton suggested hopefully. 

Flopsy walked over to the dresser. There was a 
big framed picture of a soldier standing on it in a con¬ 
spicuous fashion. She stared at it obediently. She 
looked at it without seeing it. 

“Who is he like?” Miss Hilton asked. 

Flopsy looked a little harder. Now she saw a fine 
strong face under an officer’s peaked hat. She felt 
that she would like very much to please Miss Hilton 
and allow her to have an important soldier’s picture 
on her dresser. 

“General Pershing,” Flopsy suggested weakly, 
after a pause. There was no higher or greater of¬ 
ficer that she could think of! 

Miss Hilton laughed until the tears came to her 
eyes. She stopped abruptly and looked at Flopsy’s 



FLOPSY PAYS A CALL 


207 


bewilderment. Every now and then she would break 
into a spasmodic giggle. 

“Let’s give up, Flopsy. Some day it will all be 
clear—let’s hope so, at least. Now that we are such 
understanding friends I am going to tell you a little 
about myself. Would you like to hear my story? You 
see, to begin with, my mother and I—(and at Fiopsy’s 
look of surprise) yes, Flopsy—you know I have a 
mother just like you.” 

“No, Miss Hilton!” Flopsy answered in surprise 
and confusion. 

“Yes,” continued Miss Hilton with a smile. 
“Teachers have mothers—strange as it may seem to 
you. To my mother I am only a little girl. I suppose 
that is stranger still, for I surely think you consider 
me very old—don’t you Flopsy?” 

Flopsy blushed furiously and stammered, “Not 
to-day, Miss Hilton.” 

Miss Hilton laughed in pure glee and delight. 
Flopsy eyed her curiously and helplessly. 

“Well, to go back to my story. My father died 
five years ago. And mother and I were left to take 
care of Babbie. And we were far, far from being 
rich. It was quite hard for us, because what money 
we had, had to go to the doctors who were trying 
to help Babbie walk as other children do. You re¬ 
member Horace Greeley who said ‘Go west young 
man!’ Well, some very wise friend said just the op¬ 
posite to me, ‘Go east young lady.’ If I wished to 
make any money for Babbie and mother, I had to 
leave my home in Rawhide and come east. Do you 
know, the only school near my home, the only one 
for miles and miles had only eight pupils in the 
whole school. And, as you can imagine that I would 



208 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


not be paid much for teaching only—eight children. 

“Poor mother was nearly heartbroken at the very 
thought of my going so far away from her. She would 
think of me as a child” Miss Hilton’s lips twisted 
into a funny little grin. 

“It was so strange and hard saying good-bye to 
mother and Babbie, and to go hundreds of miles away 
to live among strangers. Some of these strangers did 
not much want me. I knew that the President of the 
Board of Education last year when I first came— 
Mr. Bates—you remember Mr. Bates, don’t you?” 
Miss Hilton asked Flopsy abruptly. 

“And— how?” Flopsy answered breathlessly. 
“Was he a—big—” she blushed furiously and 
stopped short. Miss Hilton guessed at once what 
Flopsy had been about to say. She nodded and gave 
her a broad wink. 

“Well, Mr. Bates did not want me here in Number 
Nine as a teacher; he wanted his sister Miss Sarah 
Bates. He hoped that I would fail as a teacher. But, 
I didn’t fail, because you boys and girls worked so 
hard with me. You will never know how much it 
meant to me, Flopsy. You see I wanted to stay here 
several years—not just one. I wanted to be able to 
send for Babbie and mother. I would have loved to 
have had Babbie in my class—” she stopped short and 
to Flopsy’s perfect horror, she saw a tiny tear glisten¬ 
ing on one of her long dark lashes. “But that was not 
to be. 

“When they promoted me to the eighth grade I 
was gloriously happy. It meant I was making good. 
It might have been—but I hope not—a disappoint¬ 
ment to you, to have me with you another year, but 
to me—” 



FLOPSY PAYS A CALL 


209 


Flopsy turned her head away again. Miss Hilton 
could only see one small crimson ear peeking between 
her curls. 

“Flopsy—” Miss Hilton went on, her voice steady. 
“Flopsy if everything goes right, I have a wonderful 
surprise for Babbie. It would make her the happiest 
girl in the whole wide world. I cannot tell you what 
it is—but I can only say this—if you graduate—and 
you will, it will make this happiness complete. Don’t 
breathe a word about Babbie and this secret, to any¬ 
one but your mother, will you Flopsy dear? There 
is a new president of the Board of Education—a Mr. 
Shirley. Mr. Shirley is helping me with this ‘secret.’ 
He tells me that I have a powerful friend that I don’t 
realize. It is all a great and glorious favor to grant 
me and a very unusual one. It isn’t all arranged as 
yet, so to talk about it too much would displease sev¬ 
eral people. So—‘mum’s’ the word. Promise, 
Flopsy?” 

Promise? Why at that moment, Flopsy would 
have gaily gone through fire with a smile on her face 
—if it would result in happiness for Miss Hilton— 
and her new friend—dear trusting Babbie of Raw- 
hide! 

“Oh, Flopsy, at the beginning of this year—I never 
was so happy. Some day you will know the great joy 
that comes in working hard, facing disappointments 
—and to have that work meet with success. I felt so 
sure of success last September. But— Well, you 
know how things have been lately. 

“Everyone seemed so kind to me—Mr. Shirley, 
Mr. Morris, Mrs. Jackson here where I live. And 
even you girls seemed to like me better. Mother and 
Babbie were so happy over the thought that we were 





210 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


soon to be together. Then Flopsy, you know the 
rest—” 

A hush fell in the room. 

“Flopsy, will you study hard—for me—for Bab¬ 
bie? I know too that it will make your father and 
mother so very proud and happy.” 

Flopsy nodded—she was too full for words. 

“Yes, I know you will—and what is more I am 
going to be very proud of you.” 

Flopsy looked up gratefully into Miss Hilton’s 
face. Miss Hilton reminded her at that moment of 
her own mother—trusting, loving and helping. 

“And we will graduate—every one! I am the 
worst, and if I study hard and then—” 

“Oh, Flopsy!” Miss Hilton smiled proudly and 
tenderly upon the warm, earnest face near her own. 
“I feel better already! Will you be glad to see me 
back at school?” she added, her eyes dancing. 

“Will I ? Oh, goodness! ” Flopsy burst out eagerly. 
“Come back soon won’t you? Monday?” she begged, 
imploringly. 

“Monday—?” Miss Hilton smiled, as she turned 
her head toward the door. “Oh, Mrs. Jackson, I am 
better—quite well—! Oh, how sweet of you—!” 
she added gayly as she caught sight of a tea-wagon, 
laden with a very inviting mid-afternoon repast. 

Flopsy felt very big and grown-up, having after¬ 
noon tea (which was cocoa) with two ladies. Then 
when the party was over, Flopsy rose to go and she 
turned and impulsively stammered,—“Oh,—I—am 
—so very sorry now, that I made you—so much— 
trouble.” 

“Why, why,” Mrs. Jackson took this remark all 
to herself. “Trouble? Good Gracious child, I didn’t 




FLOPSY PAYS A CALL 


211 


make either the cocoa or the cake. Trouble? not a 
bit—but a pleasure!” 

Flopsy and Molly Hilton exchanged a swift look of 
understanding, sympathy and love—and then Flopsy 
darted from the room. 

“Mother, I am crazy about Miss Hilton. Do you 
know that she is so young—only twenty or thirty— 
or something—! 

“The funniest thing, though, she has a mother. Of 
course, I suppose that teachers must have mothers, 
but it does seem funny that a teacher ever has anyone 
to boss her even when she is little! 

“But mother—” and breathlessly, Flopsy told the 
story of Babbie. “Mother, it’s the most wonderful— 
and funny thing I ever heard of! Because, if I ever 
had a heroine, she would have jet black hair and jet 
black eyes and she would love arithmetic. It’s almost 
ghostly and mysterious—how it all happened. It 
makes me shiver all over. 

“Oh, how I would love to see her! I wish that 
she had been here this year in our class. Oh, gee! 

“She’d have been more wonderful than Janet— 
and my best friend—” this “might-have-been” daz¬ 
zled Flopsy with its radiance and she sat still dreaming 
rosily. 

“But Flopsy, you may yet have this dear little girl 
for a real friend. It is not too late. Of course, you 
can’t have her in time to be a classmate, but still—” 

Flopsy wriggled with ecstasy, then cried out sud¬ 
denly, “And another funny thing—she wants me to 
graduate. I am going to graduate—and everything! 
Then Babbie will come here.” Flopsy’s excited 
thoughts ran helter-skelter. “Old Lady Barnard will 






212 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


get good and stung, for she is trying might and main 
to leave me back. 

“Do you know what? Miss Hilton loves me? 
Well—now— Oh, yes! Miss Hilton’s mother thinks 
that she is a little girl—isn’t that crazy?” Flopsy 
could not understand this at all. 

“But—I am going to graduate and Miss Hilton 
loves me—” 

“Dear child.” Mrs. Moore gathered her daughter 
in her arms. “I knew that she did, for I didn’t very 
well see how she could help it! Oh, won’t your 
father be proud and happy!” she added with a catch 
in her voice. 




Chapter Seventeen 

Doubts and Bright Hopes 

F OR the first time in her life, the mere thought 
of school made Flora Moore thrill with de¬ 
light. Monday morning found her eager for 
the day before her! 

“Hello, Flops!” called Alice, as she ran to meet 
her. “How about it? What happened?” Alice had 
been nearly eaten up with curiosity to know all the 
whys and wherefores of Flopsy’s visit. 

“Listen, Alice!” and Flopsy repeated every detail 
of the afternoon, with the exception of Babbie’s let¬ 
ter. 

Alice puckered up her lips, the lower one slightly 
pushed forward and drawled deliberately. 

“Well—it’s a good thing for you all right that 
Miss Hilton is coming back—for it would have been 

213 






214 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


‘good-night-nurse’ to your graduating if she hadn’t. 
That Miss Barn Yard had it in for you, and me too 
—just because I sat near you.” 

“You weren’t so like an angel last week, Alice!” 

“Of course not—I am not a stick—but it was mostly 
your fault that I wasn’t an angel! Well, I suppose 
Miss Hilton said those nice things partly to encour¬ 
age you.” Alice gave Flopsy a sharp side look. 

Flopsy blushed painfully, but answered sarcasti¬ 
cally: 

“Alice you have the sweetest ideas about things— 
I don't think. Even Dottie would tell you that you 
are the biggest, most jealous—” 

“Oh, Dottie!” Alice interrupted laughing, for she 
did not desire a quarrel. “Isn’t she a scream? Miss 
Barn Yard almost scares her into the middle of next 
week. Well, speaking of angels, here she comes, with 
another kind of an angel—” this last was for Fleu- 
rette. 

Dottie was round-eyed and solemn faced as she 
came toward Flopsy. Fleurette was eager and ex¬ 
cited, and before she reached them she shouted: 

“Were you killed?” 

“Nobody home in her head,” Alice sneered. “The 
way she yells things—she doesn’t think anything is 
private.” 

But Flopsy knew that from Fleurette she might ex¬ 
pect warm, unstinted sympathy and understanding. 
Ever since the day, long ago when they had met, 
Flopsy and Fleurette had relished the telling of their 
latest story of trouble or pleasure. Neither of them 
ever pooh-poohed anger, or dampened the other’s 
ardor, or soothed the other’s fears. They both en¬ 
joyed being permitted full rein to their feelings. To 



DOUBTS AND BRIGHT HOPES 215 


neither girl no sensational detail nor elaborate descrip¬ 
tion ever sounded exaggerated. 

And so Flopsy poured her story into Fleurette’s 
ears in her most lavish way. Dottie and Fleurette 
hung upon her words in awe. Alice alone was un¬ 
moved, having heard the story once, and heard it less 
dramatically told. 

“Listen—! ” and Flopsy described with quivering 
voice Miss Hilton’s changed appearance. “Her hands 
were so thin! And with blue veins in them too! And 
her eyes looked so big—with black shadows all around 
them. Mr. Morris likes her, he has been very kind 
to her—maybe—” Flopsy’s eyes opened as though 
struck with a sudden idea. 

“Maybe he loves her!” Fleurette broke in ex¬ 
citedly. “I’ll bet that’s it—” 

Alice turned a slow contemptous look of scorn upon 
Fleurette. 

“Maybe you think that would be nice. Well, I 
don’t—he’s married.” 

Fleurette swallowed hard and subsided into silence. 

“Is she coming back this morning?” Dottie asked 
ending an awful pause. 

“Oh, yes! She promised me,” Flopsy boasted. 

“And we will all graduate?” Fleurette broke out 
again. 

“Yes—oh, yes! ” Flopsy answered with an emphatic 
nod. “7 promised her that we would all graduate.” 

Alice pinched Dottie’s plump arm, but refrained 
from any comment. 

Miss Hilton was not in school that morning. 

Flopsy was bitterly disappointed, but she was 
shrewd enough to avoid meeting Alice’s eyes, which 
she knew were seeking hers. She did not wish to have 






216 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


Alice know the depths of her disappointment nor let 
Alice realize her bewilderment. What could have 
happened to Miss Hilton? 

To everyone’s surprise and confusion, the day went 
smoothly, Miss Barnard herself was very quiet— 
she scolded not at all, and towards Flopsy her man¬ 
ner was cool but courteous. 

On the way home Alice hurried to Flopsy’s side 
and asked the question which she had been framing 
all day. 

“Say, Flopsy, why did Miss Hilton break that 
promise to you about coming to school? Now, I 
suppose you can break yours about graduating us all? 
Whom will you leave back?” 

“Does Flopsy think that she has anything to do 
with graduating us?” Mary Howard almost shrieked. 
“Good lands! I suppose that she will put herself on 
the program! What are you going to choose for 
yourself?” She turned in scorn to Flopsy. 

“All right— laugh —but—” Flopsy shut her lips 
tight together. 

“My uncle is going to give me a wrist watch. Do 
you think I’d better let him?” Mary continued ridi¬ 
culing. Mary and her whole family were exceedingly 
proud of her record at school. 

Flopsy had had her mouth in a tight line, and now 
she shut her eyes assuming an expression of cold 
haughty disdain. 

“My dress is nearly made, what will / do?” Alice 
wailed. 

“I am going to get a pair of silk stockings and a 
bracelet,” Dottie reflected aloud, not to tease Flopsy, 
but merely because the thought was a pleasant one. 

“Is that all!” Fleurette cried. “Why I am going 




DOUBTS AND BRIGHT HOPES 217 


to get a ring, a watch, a silk nightgown and at least 
five bouquets of flowers. One of the bouquets is 
going to be a basket—” 

Janet raised her pretty eyebrows and shook her 
head in disapproval. 

“I am not going to get any flowers—for a grammar 
school graduation is nothing . I will have two more 
real ones before I have finished.” 

“Oh—” Alice looked at Janet in disappointment. 
Alice longed to be like Janet, but she often regretted 
Janet’s condemnation of so many of the things she 
wanted and coveted. Perhaps, Alice thought, it is 
because she is “classy” and “swell,” but Alice sin¬ 
cerely wished that Janet’s “classiness” did not dis¬ 
dain the things which in her heart she liked, for 
instance the customary flowers which were sent to 
the graduates of Number Nine. 

“So will I!” Mary answered Janet—rather exas¬ 
perated at Janet’s lofty air of superiority. “I am 
going to have two more graduations and I am going 
to have flowers for them all. Of course, I am going 
to High School and then to Vassar.” 

“Well, my mother says that I don’t have to go to 
High School to be a lady. I am just going for a while. 
I won’t bother graduating. And if I did go to col¬ 
lege, do you think I would pick out a crazy one like 
Vassar? My father would make me go to Harvard 
or Yale. Whoever heard of Vassar having a good 
football team?” 

“I faint—Fleurette wants to be on a football 
team,” and Alice fainted into Dottie’s arms. 

“Of all the mean, disagreeable and contemptible 
girls I ever knew in my whole life—you are the 
worst!” Flopsy blazed out furiously. “You laugh 







218 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


at nothing! Stop it!” and she almost shook Mary in 
her indignation. “And if you are going to waste your 
time—I am not going to waste mine. Good-bye!” 
and with her head in the air, Flopsy marched off for 
home. 

The next morning Miss Hilton was not at school 
—nor upon the third day. The Eight A, at Flopsy’s 
suggestion collected money and sent her a huge bou¬ 
quet of flowers. They all longed for their teacher’s 
return. 

Each night Flopsy carefully prepared her lessons 
to delight and dazzle Miss Hilton, but each day she 
recited them to cold unfriendly Miss Barnard. 

“Oh mother, mother! ” she cried out in her misery. 
“She must be awfully sick. And I made her so—” 

“Flopsy, dear —/” her mother protested sooth- 

mgly. 

“Yes, I did make her sick, and even my visit to her 
made her sicker. Once a long time ago, just when we 
started the T.M.S., she kept Alice and me after 
school, and she talked so sweet and kind—” Flopsy’s 
voice broke. The recollection of that afternoon came 
back to torment her—she could too vividly and sharply 
recall the tired note in Miss Hilton’s voice, and the 
weary look in her pretty eyes; and with it came other 
memories, of many unjust, stubborn opinions of Miss 
Hilton. She remembered how bitterly she had com¬ 
plained because Miss Hilton had been promoted to 
the Eight A, with them. And, that promotion had 
meant so much to her and to Babbie—! 

The thought of Babbie’s faith in her, her loyalty 
and devotion made her utterly miserable. The fear 
of disappointing or hurting Babbie was with her every 
minute. She lay awake at nights thinking of Babbie’s 



DOUBTS AND BRIGHT HOPES 219 


letter. Life had taken on an altogether new aspect 
for Flopsy. She was suffering for someone other than 
herself. She didn’t dare write Babbie because she was 
not sure of two very important facts—“Molly’s 
health” and the one hundred percent graduation of 
her “dear pupils.” 

Flopsy never stopped her work, although it was 
discouraging to do well and have it received with¬ 
out a word of praise, and sometimes with only the 
barest nod of recognition, or a quizzical look of sur¬ 
prise. Flopsy had made a promise and Flopsy in¬ 
tended keeping it. 

“She won’t come back this week—there is only one 
day more. She will wait until next week—” Flopsy 
sighed as she bent over her home lessons Thursday 
evening. 

But Miss Hilton was there in her old place Friday 
morning. Flopsy could have cried out with pure joy 
when Bill Forbes told her the news in the cloak 
room. 

“Say old Lady Barnyard has flown the coop, and 
Miss Hilton is here!” Bill almost stuttered as he 
blurted out his joyous tidings. 

“She—is!” Flopsy’s eyes opened wide. It seemed 
too good to be true. 

“Aren’t you glad?” She jumped about on her tip¬ 
toes. 

“Gee, I should smile! And she looks— class , be¬ 
lieve me!” 

What a flutter of happy, eager boys and girls as 
they bustled to their seats that morning! They turned 
radiant, frankly delighted faces upon their teacher 
in a wholehearted welcome. 

Her eyes were starry, in spite of the shadows about 



220 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


them, and her whole small person radiated good will 
and happiness. 

“Boys and girls—you?” she smilingly questioned. 
“Yes, you are glad to see me again! ” 

An impulsive flutter of hands here and there, and 
then thirty-two pairs clapped in hearty noisy unison. 



Chapter Eighteen 


That Week he]ore Graduation 

E XAMINATION week was not the same old 
story, for eighth grade examinations are like 
no other experience in grammar school days. 
They took place two weeks before the rest of the 
school were burdened with theirs. Sixth and seventh 
grade pupils listened with drawn breaths and sober 
faces to the horrors and tremendous responsibilities 
of “County exams.” They dreaded with all their 
hearts this awe inspiring occasion in their lives, yet 
they were vaguely fascinated by its significance and 
importance. 

The eighth grade were drawn together by the clos¬ 
est of ties—a common burden and worry. They felt 
that they were like members of one big family passing 
through a stern crisis. The rest of the school was 
miles behind and worlds away. Teacher and pupils 
had for the time forgotten that pleasure and light 
laughter were ever part of their lives. 

Miss Hilton’s eyes were heavy with fatigue, but 
she kept herself under fine control and was wonder¬ 
fully patient, even when Dottie burst into stormy 
tears in the midst of the grammar examination. 

“Come, Euphemia, come! ” Miss Hilton said gently 
but firmly. “This will never do.” 

But Dottie didn’t care, for she was sure that she 
was left behind now. Subordinate clauses, and all the 

221 


222 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


tenses—past, present and future, the agreement of 
subjects and predicates had had their part in ruining 
her youthful career. She sobbed more wildly. It was 
a warm sultry day, and eighth grade nerves were 
strained. They put down their pens and brushes and 
nervously prayed that Dottie would cease—they 
scratched their heads, bit their lips, and scribbled 
on bits of scrap paper, but Dottie cried on. 

Miss Hilton gently lifted Dottie from her seat and 
led her from the room. She stepped out into the hall 
with her, but held the door ajar with one hand. 

Dottie’s tears were not encouraging, everyone felt 
sorry for her—and for themselves. They rested from 
their work for a few minutes and contemplated the 
uncertainty of everything and then they went back 
to diagramming sentences, far from refreshed by 
their brief interruption. 

Dottie cried one day—and William, well, he didn’t 
cry, of course, but during the geography examination 
in refilling his ink well his moist hand slipped and 
the big bottle emptied its contents all over his nearly 
finished work. He sat for some time motionless, look¬ 
ing gloomily and sulkily out of the window. His face 
was swollen from suppressed feelings, for he would 
have relished howling or bellowing, but such a pro¬ 
ceeding was unthinkable in an eighth grade boy. 

But at last it was over—examination week! It came 
to an end as all things must, even trouble. The eighth 
grade drew a long deep breath of relief, but their busy 
teacher had no time to stop for even that! A program 
on the night of nights had to be arranged and pre¬ 
pared. Reports marked, averages made out— 

Friday afternoon Miss Hilton faced her class with 
a wide smile. 



WEEK BEFORE GRADUATION 223 


“Class, you have been such a joy to me! Although 
I have not finished, your papers are a wonderful sur¬ 
prise. I never can begin to tell you how happy and 
proud you have made me. I shall have many eighth 
grades but my first one will always be a very pleasant 
memory,” she paused. “There may never be another 
eighth grade graduation from Number Nine. You 
may be the last class to graduate, because there may 
be a Junior High School in another year. Oh, but I 
am proud of you—” 

Dottie couldn’t stand appreciation or anything like 
tender farewells, so she put her head into her arms 
and shed, this time soft, quiet tears. 

“Mary plays very well, I know, and I shall want 
her to play for us the night we all graduate. Will you 
come to see me after school, Mary, and we will talk 
it over, and then you talk it over with your mother 
and your music teacher—” 

Mary smilingly nodded “yes,” a proud, self- 
satisfied expression on her face. 

“And William, I want you to learn Lincoln’s 
Gettysburg speech. Although everyone knows it—it is 
always good to hear it, and it will be worth your 
while to learn it. We will be proud of the way you 
do it.” 

William looked about the room grinning—but 
somewhat bewildered at the praise. 

“Laura, Harold, John—come to me after school 
—and—” she paused. “Flora is going to learn by 
heart, and give to us the best composition which I 
have read in two years. Don’t you all remember the 
story of the old lighthouse, with its lovely garden 
and quaint gardener? Flora saw and heard so much 
more there than most of us might have. You recall 




224 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


how interested we were in the strange story of the 
battered life boat, now useless except to hold scarlet 
geraniums. So I am going to let others enjoy Flora’s 
composition In the Old Lighthouse Garden” Miss 
Hilton paused once more, and then turned her direct 
gaze full upon Flopsy’s glowing face. “Class, I want 
you to know that as I have looked over your papers 
it appears as though Flora passed fourth or fifth high¬ 
est in the class! Nothing could have delighted me— 
made me happier than her wonderful improvement 
—for I know that it meant an earnest endeavor to 
overcome past failings—and weak marks.” 

Flopsy’s soul was singing with pure joy—joy that 
was rich in gratitude. It was all Miss Hilton’s doing! 
It was she who had watched and worried over her— 
had trusted, helped and inspired. Very humble was 
Flopsy as she listened to Miss Hilton’s words of 
praise—humble but happy. And her happiness was 
not for herself alone, but for Miss Hilton, her father, 
and her mother and that dear little friend so far 
away. 

“Just like the end of a story,” Flopsy fairly purred 
in her contentment. “Everything is coming out just 
right.” 

Arm in arm “The Merry Six”—really merry now 
—strolled home from school that day. 

“We must go to town tomorrow and get Miss Hil¬ 
ton’s present, and you can give it to her, Flopsy, at 
the class party,” Alice suggested generously. 

“Do you know—” Flopsy’s thoughts were busy 
along other lines—“do you know that Bill is getting 
to be a gentleman, for sometimes he tips his hat to 



WEEK BEFORE GRADUATION 225 


me. And he is going to wear white pants and a blue 
coat at the party.” 

“He asked me to go to the party with him,” Mary 
quickly interrupted. 

“Well, it’s at my house, so he couldn’t—well, now 
nobody could ask me to go out the front door and 
in the back—that would be crazy. But, Bill and I 
walked home from school yesterday and he said 
that —” Flopsy was trying to give an impression. 
What? Had Bill suggested that if the party were 
not at Flopsy’s house that he would have asked her? 

“I am going with Frank,” Alice was very much 
satisfied with her lot. “He is a gentleman, for he tips 
his hat —all the time , and he walks on the outside of 
the street, so you don’t look ‘for sale’ the way Bill 
makes you look.” 

“Maybe if I walk home with Harold, Monday 
afternoon, he will think of asking me,” Fleurette 
said hopefully. 

Janet was quiet, but an amused smile was about 
her lips. 

“Who are you—? Oh, Milton, of course.” Alice 
turned to her. 

“Yes, he called me up the other night, and last 
night he came to call on me for a while. Of course, 
he went home at ten o’clock.” 

There was a respectful silence, and as usual Janet 
had had things so different from the others. To be 
called up and “called upon” was not yet part of 
their existence. 

As Flopsy combed her hair the night of nights, 
she sang out in the gayest voice to her mother in the 
next room: 



226 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“I don’t care about jet black hair so much now, 
because my hair is getting dark all by itself. Some¬ 
time I hope it will be like Babbie’s. Miss Hilton said 
today it was a pity, but she thought my hair would 
get darker. She said it was bronze—and I saw a 
bronze statue once, and it wasn’t red at all! Isn’t 
that wonderful! Everything is just right and I am 
so happy!” 

“Stick your little bronze head out of the window on 
rainy nights Flopsy, and it will get a fine dark 
weather-beaten look. No one I am sure would call it 
red, except a mean contemptible person whom I 
would suspect of being a cad.” Mr. Moore was stand¬ 
ing in Flopsy’s doorway—and looking soberly at his 
daughter. 

Flopsy blushed and called out again, “Now, 
Mother, Daddy is teasing me! My hair isn’t really 
red, is it?” 

“No, my darling daughter!” Mr. Moore broke in 
before his wife could answer. “It is, as Miss Hilton 
has said, bronze, or a bronzish-chestnut. It is the 
same color as your eyes, and far be it from me to say 
that I had a daughter with red eyes! Now, doesn’t 
your own father satisfy all your doubts?” 

Mrs. Moore was now at her husband’s side. With 
their arms about each other, they stood looking upon 
their first and only daughter with eyes soft with love. 

“Isn’t she sweet!” Mrs. Moore nestled into her 
husband’s enveloping arm, and whispered in his ear. 

Mr. Moore didn’t have to answer, for he was fairly 
bursting with satisfied pride. 

Flopsy’s cup of joy was brimming over—she loved 
everybody and everything, in all this wide world, on 
this night of nights! 



WEEK BEFORE GRADUATION 227 


No one disappointed her—everything was too won¬ 
derful! Her dainty white dress, the necklace of 
pearls, which were pretty enough to be real, her first 
pair of fine silk stockings, the two books from Aunt 
Molly, and that signet ring, with its three letters 
“F.M.M.” 

But, after all, what were these things to the memory 
of Miss Hilton’s face that day as she had given her 
last rehearsal of In the Old Lighthouse Garden. 
Flopsy tossed her hair brush across the bed and darted 
like a streak of white lightning into her mother’s 
arms. 

“Mother—I am—so—happy.” 

“Of course you are, my little girl—very happy! 
So are we all—father, auntie, Frankie, Dickie, and 
your true and loyal friend, Miss Hilton. We are all 
happy this very minute, but just fancy, how very, 
very proud we are all going to be this evening of 
Flopsy Moore! Not only this evening—but that 
day when brave little Miss Hilton comes to visit 
you with her mother—and Babbie. Just think how 
happy you will be to meet that poor child who has 
had so much loneliness in her life, and who has missed 
so many things that you have enjoyed and have 
taken as a matter of course. And you, Flopsy, actu¬ 
ally worked and worried—and you did y little daugh¬ 
ter—to give her this happiness she has never known. 
It is the only thing that is the least bit disappointing, 
to-night—is that Babbie could not have come east 
to-night.” 

Flopsy’s radiant face clouded. 

“Mother, if I had worked hard, sooner—if Miss 
Hilton could have been sure of me—oh, mother!” 

“My darling!” her mother cried hastily, “no 



228 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


clouds to-night. Everything is for the best. Proba¬ 
bly, Babbie is not quite strong enough for an eve¬ 
ning’s entertainment—one which really meant so 
much to her. It is for the best!” 

“It’s for the best—but I’ll be blessed, the girl’s 
not dressed!” Mr. Moore could not keep away from 
his graduating daughter. “Dickie, Frankie and I are 
waiting for you two. But I suppose it’s up to us men 
to wait humbly upon such auspicious occasions. Don’t 
hurry, don’t hurry, but the carriage waits.” 

Then Flopsy kissed her mother and her father 
and he in turn kissed her mother. 

“The carriage waits,” Mr. Moore repeated. He 
was like a little boy eager to spring a surprise. “But, 
my beauteous daughter—the carriage waits without 
—a horse.” 

And, so it did! At the curb in front of the Moore’s 
home was a nice new shining automobile! Mr. Moore 
opened its doors, and with a great sweeping bow he 
ushered them into it. It was the first new car that 
the family had ever had—they had once years before 
had a second-hand one, which had fallen apart, in all 
the ways a car can fall apart—in an extraordinarily 
short time. 

“Whoopee!” Frankie yelled. 

“Drive on!” Flopsy ordered lustily. “Drive on to 
my graduation.” 

And so the Moore family drove on blithely to 
Flopsy’s graduation! 



Chapter Nineteen 

“The End of All Stories ” 


O H, that evening! 

It was very different—beautifully differ¬ 
ent from all graduations—everywhere! 

The auditorium was jammed, packed!—because 
the seats were free and most of Number Nine’s star 
baseball team was to leave Number Nine’s reputation 
in other hands. You could see the “Rooters” every¬ 
where throughout the bustling excited audience, they 
were ready to break into shrieks and uproarious ap¬ 
plause when the auspicious moment arrived. 

Then, there was another eagerly expectant group of 
people—proud mothers and fathers, uncles, aunts, 
cousins. 

And were they proud? Oh, dear, they were so 
proud that they couldn’t think of anybody but their 
own rosy-cheeked little girl—or their own bash¬ 
fully awkward boy! You could hear them talking 
everywhere. 

In line, before those graduating marched in—you 
never heard such a babble, babble—giggle, giggle. 
“Oh, long pants!” 

“I can’t believe it’s really going to happen- 
“Where’s Miss Hilton—!” 




Where? Where? Nobody had seen her? Mr. 
Morris was in charge of them. Then they forgot Miss 
Hilton and chatted nervously—on—and on. 

229 



230 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“I feel like crying!” Dottie’s voice trembled omi¬ 
nously. 

Fleurette Muldoon laughed shrilly. 

“Crazy! ” 

“Look at Milton Brooks! He is so stuck on him¬ 
self!” 

Giggles! 

The chords struck on the piano which meant into 
the lime-light for the first time, and the last rite of 
grammar days. 

“Say, my darn Boston garter is slipping or some¬ 
thing,” complained Harold Bronley proudly to a 
boy still guiltless of Boston garters, but he added as 
he marked time: “I am sick, take me, home! ” 

They were seated at last, in two rows formed in a 
semi-circle. The audience broke into applause. 

“Wasn’t it wonderful?” 

Oh yes, Flopsy did them all proud as she recited 
in her fine, rich young voice her own creation. 

But where was Miss Hilton? 

Then the President of the Board, Mr. Shirley, 
talked like all Board Presidents, at great length and 
most monotonously. Everybody grew restive. He 
was personally well-liked but to no one was he an 
important figure at a grammar school graduation. 
Finally, he concluded, which was the thing he should 
have done at the beginning. 

And still there was no sign of Miss Hilton. Dur¬ 
ing Mr. Shirley’s soliloquy there had been lots of 
spare time to look for her. 

Now the rooters were on the edges of their seats, 
breathlessly waiting to break into action. 

Mr. Shirley walked to a table upon which were 
piled thirty-two (everyone was sure of the number) 



"THE END OF ALL STORIES” 231 


—white rolls tied with red and gray streamers. 

And again, like all Board Presidents, he had glasses 
which came off easily and he was near sighted. He 
stumbled over pronouncing one of each set of three 
names, wrong, to the great delight of everybody, but 
to a proud parent who had not given those names to 
be tampered with! 

They screamed—those rooters and stamped their 
feet furiously when at last came— 

“William Henry Forbes—” 

Cat-calls, long and shrill, came from the throats of 
dozens of loyal and ardent admirers. 

William grinned sheepishly and ducked his head 
as he fairly grabbed his diploma from Mr. Shirley’s 
hand. 

Mr. Morris rose from his seat and raised his hand 
meaningly. The shrieks died down, but the applause 
continued until Mr. Shirley called deliberately. 

“Flora—Mad—and—More.” 

Flopsy’s cheeks flamed as shouts of amusement 
followed Mr. Shirley’s peculiar drawling accent on 
her name. But they were good-natured laughs, and 
the generous good-will of all showed itself in the 
noisy clapping of hands, more than usual for just a 
girl! 

Then— 

Mr. Shirley stood beside a table upon which lay 
one lone diploma. He stood looking down upon it 
with a queer smile upon his face, then turned and 
looked the graduating class over very slowly. The 
audience did the same. As he dropped his eyes again 
upon that solitary diploma—the audience did the 
same! 

What could it mean, for every boy and girl in that 



232 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


class was clutching a white roll? For the first time 
that evening, the audience wanted to hear Mr. Shir¬ 
ley speak, in fact they were breathlessly awaiting the 
sound of his voice. 

“My friends, I want to tell you the story of a 

girl-. . 

“This little girl lived in a small town in the far 
West. She was far too delicate to go to school and 
she had no opportunity to gain an education except 
through the patient efforts of a fine mother and a 
good sister. This sister was only six or seven years 
older, but she had to face the problem with her mother 
—of earning their own and the child’s living—educat¬ 
ing and giving her every medical advantage within 
their power. 

“And this they have succeeded in doing supremely 
well. For that frail girl is now as healthy as any 
little graduate here—but next to her health is this— 

“She has sent her test papers east—yes, to Num¬ 
ber Nine school for two years for correction! 

“Mr. Morris—several of the members of the Board 
and myself became interested in her remarkable abili¬ 
ties. We tested her ourselves personally, because we 
knew it would please a great friend of ours. 

“We have been astonished many times at her math¬ 
ematical ability, and I, myself, have spent many nights 
this year planning new problems for her. 

“She is fourteen years but has never been inside a 
school building until—tonight—!” 

There was a strange hush over the assembly, no 
one moved. 

“This diploma belongs to a girl who passed the 
eighth year examinations with an average of 94.5— 
Barbara Hilton—!” 




“THE END OF ALL STORIES” 233 


And there before the curious eagerly expectant eyes 
of all was Miss Hilton with her arm about the shoul¬ 
ders of a slim, dark-haired girl. 

A great hush fell upon the auditorium. 

He cleared his throat, picked up that extra diploma 
and clasped one hand at each end of it, and eyed it 
again. 

The crowded auditorium was strangely still, heads 
were craned, and ears and eyes were ready for any¬ 
thing. 

“This diploma,” he began slowly, “is number 
thirty-three and there are only thirty-two young 
people in this class. Let me see—” He examined it 
closer, adjusted his glasses slowly. “It has a name 
on it, a strange name, and yet one that has a fine and 
familiar ring to it. It is a name that makes the mem¬ 
bers of the Board think of a splendid little lady, and 
in the best sense, a true woman. It brings to my mind 
the loyal friend of these boys and girls, the one who 
deserves a hundred per cent credit for this very praise¬ 
worthy and remarkable program tonight—one which 
will stand out for years among Number Nine’s gradu¬ 
ations! That name is—” 

“Miss Hilton! Miss Hilton!” yelled two boyish 
voices in wild excitement. 

Mr. Shirley smiled broadly at William—now slink¬ 
ing back into his chair with embarrassment. Milton’s 
eyes were happy with anticipation. 

“Yes, Miss Mary Hilton of School Number Nine. 
The Board, Ladies and Gentlemen and young people, 
share your just pride ii> her!” 

The house almost shook with the thunderous ap¬ 
plause. 

Mr. Morris did not raise his hand this time to 



234 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


stop it, as there were no cat-calls, nor the stamping 
of feet, nothing but the most respectful expression of 
appreciation. 

That diploma was still unnamed—and Mr. Shirley- 
still held it conspicuously in his hand. 

As the clapping grew less and less, Mr. Shirley 
made an effort to speak. 

“Barbara!” The President of the Board of Educa¬ 
tion held out that extra diploma invitingly. He 
wanted to tempt her into the center of the stage. 

Without a trace of embarrassment, she sprang for¬ 
ward her face alight and radiant. 

From head to foot, Babbie was in white, just as 
she, in the glowing firelight, had seen herself a year 
before. Her glossy black hair shone with high lights, 
it was simply fixed about her face and fell in curls 
from a clasp at her neck. She held the magic diploma 
proudly in her hands. 

The audience burst into cheers—cheers—and more 
cheers! The roof trembled with a unison of joyous 
voices. Not only did the roof tremble at the sound, 
but Babbie’s knees as well, she looked like a fright¬ 
ened bird ready for flight. 

Mr. Shirley nodded kindly and motioned for her 
to take a place with her classmates. 

Nobody to this day, try as he will to figure it 
out, can understand how it happened that Flopsy and 
Babbie shared the same seat. But there they sat, arms 
tight about each other, for two important reasons— 
the fear of falling off the narrow chair, and a love 
which had been born of trust and faith! 

Miss Molly took her place before her class for the 
very last time. No one that night would have called 
her anything but young—and every pretty, except 



“THE END OF ALL STORIES” 235 


of course the boys who would have said rapturously:— 
“Some class!” 

The graduates of Number Nine stood at her signal 
and their fresh young voices rose sweet and true as 
they sang the question in their hearts, “Should Auld 
Acquaintance Be Forgot and Never Brought to 
Mind?” 

Here and there something white fluttered before 
a face. A queer mist rose before the vision of many 
—a golden mist! Nobody looked at his neighbor, 
afraid, perhaps, that his eyes might catch a tell-tale 
sign. 

Sheepish grins were exchanged as in a body they 
rose to chords sounded on the piano. Hats, programs 
and wraps tumbled to the floor from laps. But they 
were glad to have some excuse for smiling—as they 
wanted to hide their momentary pang and sentiment 
at parting. 

They let their bottled up feelings burst out as they 
sang, “The Star Spangled Banner!” Of course, the 
volume swelled tremendously with the chorus, weak¬ 
ening a bit in the verses—and of course, it wasn’t 
quite always in key—but oh, how it stirred, swayed 
that happy throng! 

“Now, I suppose, Miss Hilton, you think I am 
altogether an old scalawag—as black and bad as they 
make them! Don’t try and deny it for I’ve heard a 
number of pretty things you’ve said of me.” It was 
old Mr. Bates, his shrewd almost crafty face, softened 
until it looked quite benign. 

Tears sprang to Miss Molly Hilton’s eyes, and 
her lips quivered. Across the auditorium she saw 
Babbie, the center of a group of fluttering admiring 




236 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


boys and girls. Her Babbie! Yes, it was like a dream 
—a lovely rosy dream! “Well—but for the villain 
in the story, or the bad fairy—the story would be 
quite stupid and not worth telling. You see, I never 
quite knew just how I was going to manage it—” 
Molly smiled just a bit pertly—just a bit wistfully. 

“What? Villain? I like your nerve!” And he 
looked as though he meant it. 

“But for me—! ” And he drew himself up with 
pride. “But for me, young lady, this happy ending 
might not have been. Whoever heard of such a trick 
as this board pulled off tonight? It took an old poli¬ 
tician like me to work it! Maybe I am a rascal, but it 
takes a rascal to meet one sometimes—yop.” From 
the satisfied smile on his thin lips, it was evident he 
hardly believed himself a rascal. “Just a minute!” 
He saw that Molly was ready to draw the conversa¬ 
tion to a close. 

Molly had dreaded—almost hated this hard-fisted, 
hard-headed, hard-hearted member of the board ever 
since she had come to Number Nine. He had made the 
way very hard for her, almost too hard at times. 

“Let them hold their horses—they can see you 
later. Pd like to ask you a few questions. First— 
did you know that Sarah Bates had taught for years 
off in the country at miserable wages, just because she 
hadn’t been strong enough to live in a town with 
factory smoke and smells? She was a cracker-jack 
teacher—a mature woman. This board wanted me 
to turn her down for a young, inexperienced girl. It 
was pretty hard on poor Sally, she had hoped for it so! 
Never mind, that’s over.” His expression was kindly. 
“Talking of it all as a story—who is the hero of this 
pretty tale—allowing that you are the heroine?” 




“THE END OF ALL STORIES” 


237 


Molly Hilton blushed furiously as she made a 
sudden move for flight. 

“Yes, sir-re. Who is he? I have been hearing 
rumors. In fact, I have somewhere in this auditorium 
a very impudent nephew who has been helping these 
rumors along. But I didn’t know whether to believe 
him or no—he doesn’t keep his feet on the ground— 
he’s always up in the air. He thinks he has been 
pretty important in all this. Of course, Babbie may 
think she is the heroine—or even that little red-haired 
witch Flopsy, probably thinks she is. But, I know 
better. You are the heroine. But the hero, the prince, 
in the fairy story as you are pleased to call it—name 
him! Name him!” 

Miss Hilton’s face was now dimpling with mischief, 
her blue eyes dancing. She was about to make a saucy 
answer, when she noted Mr. Bates’ expression, as 
he stared over her shoulder. They were standing 
on the platform of the auditorium. He was looking 
down into the audience which was rapidly and noisily 
dismissing itself. 

“Ha! Ha! Young lady! Caught! You may call 
it a fairy tale and I’ll call it a little play. The curtain 
is about to go down on the entire cast. Imagine any¬ 
one thinking a public school has no romance. It is 
the most romantic adventure in America—it’s her very 
own. Everyone is coming right up here on this plat¬ 
form, so that the ending will be perfect. Don’t 
move—stay right where you are—don’t turn your 
head.” 

Molly Hilton’s eyes opened wide. Her curiosity 
almost overcame her. She made a funny little move 
to see what was going on behind her. 

“Molly! Molly!” Babbie flung herself into her 





238 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


sister’s arms in wild and jubilant excitement. “Here’s 
Flopsy! She gave me her class pin. Now, I have 
everything—a white graduation dress with a class 
pin on it—a diploma—and girl friends. All my wishes 
have come true!” 

Miss Hilton caught her sister in her arms. 

There was—Flopsy, Alice, Fleurette and behind 
them, coming up the stairs which led to the platform 
was a tall young man. His air and expression was 
that of a conquering hero. He was distinctly proud 
of himself. 

“Allow me—” he began. At the sound of his voice 
Alice and Flopsy turned and looked up into his face. 
His voice had a hauntingly familiar ring to it—Flopsy 
and Alice exchanged perplexed looks. His face too 
was familiar. Who was he? Where had they seen 
him before? 

“Allow me,” he repeated, “to present to you two 
very important characters in your life. But for them 
you might have continued to have been visited by—a 
big crank on the Board of Education—Mr. Bates! 
Ah, here he is! I hope he is telling you how sorry 
he is for having worried you. And, did he tell you 
how his nephew—a smart aviator took him to task 
and gave him old Ned for scaring you and your 
pupils? Did he?” 

Flopsy and Alice looked startled and a little fright¬ 
ened. 

“He can’t hurt you girls—don’t look so alarmed. 
He is perfectly harmless—he is now a wiser and 
better man. He is your friend. I made him so!” he 
boasted. 

“The impudent young nephew—I spoke of a few 
minutes ago, Miss Hilton,” Mr. Bates mockingly an- 



“THE END OF ALL STORIES” 239 


nounced. “That’s a fine way to speak of, and to, your 
venerable and respected uncle, young man!” 

Mr. Bates stretched out his arms wide and managed 
to grab a nice armful of giggling, wriggling happy 
little girls. 

“See, now,” the impudent nephew with the familiar 
face and manner said, “isn’t that a picture? The old 
crank on the Board of Education and the girls he 
once scared to death. Ask him, Flopsy, which is the 
best school in town? Ask him!” 

Mr. Bates held them tighter, and the girls and he 
shouted together, in a chorus (that was not quite in 
perfect unison, for all their good intentions!): 

“Number Nine! Number Nine!” 

“Who is the best Eight A teacher in town?” the 
impudent nephew persisted. 

“Miss Hilton! Miss Hilton!” 

“Behold what I have done!” boasted the impudent 
nephew. 

“You ,” scoffed Mr. Bates, releasing his new found 
friend, “you! Look what / have done! If it were 
not for my wire-pulling you never would have had 
a graduation like this. I am a power in the county 
and state. I get what I want. I did it all.” 

“No, / did,” disputed Miss Hilton laughing. “I 
won the war.” She turned to Flopsy—“Say it, Flopsy, 
say you did it all. Say you came in at the end and 
saved the day. Say it.” 

“I did,” Flopsy bobbed her head up and down 
obediently, as she answered proudly. 

“Now, Babbie, you say—but for you no one would 
have worked and struggled so hard.” 

“Oh, Molly, it’s the most perfect night in the 
world,” Babbie’s voice—she could say no more. 



240 


LITTLE MISS REDHEAD 


“Alice and Fleur ette, surely you must feel that 
you did your part. Say you did it—say it as a 
duet.” 

Alice and Fleurette, for the first and last time in 
their lives, shouted in perfect unison: 

“We did.” 

“Flopsy and Alice, I told you a year ago that some 
day I would introduce you to my Miss Hilton. Well! 
here she is and she is sweet, she is pretty, isn’t she? 
They don’t come much prettier and sweeter!” 

“Oh, David Stewart, you goose—” Molly Hilton 
choked—and she gathered her little pupils in her 
arms. There were glistening tears on her lashes but 
they were not to be outshone by a sparkling stone in 
the ring on the third finger of her left hand. 

A hush fell upon the little group. David Stewart 
cleared his throat, and with a suspicious huskiness 
said: 

“Flopsy Moore, I wish to ask you a question. 
Flopsy, please tell all these people you remember me. 
Please don’t let Miss Hilton say again that I am 
blotted out of your memory. And you, too, Alice, 
don’t you remember me at all?” he pleaded. “Look 
closely, don’t disappoint me. We were all such friends 
that day in the cemetery, a long time ago. Flopsy, 
you said that I had sprouted wings,” he said humbly. 

“Our flying Captain! Our Captain!” both girls 
shouted at once as they sprang to his side. 

“There!” he mocked Miss Hilton. “What did I 
tell you? And, girls, when you have time to think it 
all over—our talk, have no fear. Everything was for 
the best. You helped me—Miss Hilton, Babbie and 
yourselves—” 

“Oh my, this is the most perfect graduation that 



“THE END OF ALL STORIES” 241 


Number Nine ever had. The curtain goes down on 
the stage. The show is over.” Mr. Bates rubbed his 
hands together in delight. 

“Oh, it is!” 

“It is!” 



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